


like a dark horse made of air

by blackkat



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fix-It, Force-Sensitive Rex, Friendship, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Jedi Training (Star Wars), M/M, Married In Space Vegas, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Order 66, Sharing a Bed, sex friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:02:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 68,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23522767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Getting flung five years into the past is pretty much a miracle. Crash-landing on the weirdest Jedi Master he's ever had the misfortune to meet is a lot more like one extended headache for Rex, especially when he also has to contend with a brand new Force sensitivity, old friends, a Force spirit wearing a familiar face, Sith Lords, ruthless cloners, and the looming shadow of a coming war.Maybe it really would have been easier to make like Obi-Wan and find a nice, sandy planet to bury himself on.
Relationships: CC-2224 | Cody/Quinlan Vos, CC-5052 | Bly/Aayla Secura, Jango Fett/Fay (Star Wars), Jon Antilles/CT-7567 | Rex, Tae Diath/CT-27-5555 | Fives | ARC-5555
Comments: 571
Kudos: 1901
Collections: Favorite Rereads, Star Wars Alternate Universes





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love this ship and self-control is something that happens to other people, so. *jazz hands* Here's this. 
> 
> The title comes from "lake-loop" by Natalie Diaz:   
> the earth’s first hand on a vision-quest  
> wildering night’s skin fields, for touch  
>  _like a dark horse made of air_  
>  , turned downward in the dusk, opaquing  
> a hand resembles its ancestors—  
> the war, or the horse who war made  
>  , _what it means to be made_  
>  to be ruined before becoming—

There’s a flicker of blue, warm and twisted through with gold, at the corner of his eye, but Rex can't spare it so much as a glance.

“It doesn’t have to go this way, Bly,” Rex says, boots slipping in the muck. He keeps his eyes on Bly, on the blaster aimed squarely at his chest, and knows it’s not set to stun.

Rex's is. Even now, even with the rise of the Empire, he can't bear to kill a brother.

“I'm CC-5052,” Bly says, sharp, and somehow that’s worse than monotone would be. This is Bly in full control of most of himself, but—the chip is twisting everything. It’s making him into a stranger, someone without so much as a name.

“You used to be Bly,” Rex says evenly, doesn’t know why he bothers except he’s ankle-deep in Felucia’s rainy season mud, Rebellion secrets in his head, the knowledge of just how many brothers he failed to save beating a tattoo in his chest. “You served with Aayla Secura, Master Aayla Secura—”

“That _traitor_ ,” Bly cuts in, “was trying to poison the water supply. We stopped her.” A tip of his head indicates the fungus-tree to Rex's left, sprawling roots and dripping canopy. “Right over there.”

He sounds proud. Bly, who cared for and admired his general to the point that once Rex couldn’t talk to him without spending twenty minutes rolling his eyes over Bly's stories about her, is _proud_ that they shot Aayla in the back. She wouldn’t have even _suspected_ that her men could turn on her, and—

“You're a traitor, too,” Bly says, and Rex can't see his face through the featureless helmet, but he can hear a thread of anger, a touch of contempt. He takes another step back, towards the water, and Bly matches him, blaster unwavering. “You betrayed all of us. All your brothers, and the whole Empire, CT-7567—”

“Rex. My _name_ is _Rex_.” The words burn at Rex's throat, tear at his mouth they're so ragged. He’s been Rex practically since he was decanted, since Alpha-17 gave them the opportunity to name themselves, and he’s never going to give it up. Not for anything. Already looking at Bly's perfectly white and unmarked armor makes his stomach turn, but losing his name—he can't even imagine it. He wouldn’t have known who Bly even was if he hadn’t started talking.

Bly pauses, like he’s startled, and then grunts. “It doesn’t matter. Surrender and you can still be sent for reeducation if Lord Vader is feeling merciful.”

Rex laughs, hollow and ragged. Aches, right down to his bones, because he _knows_. He knows who Vader is. Maybe Anakin would be merciful to his old captain, but mercy certainly hasn’t factored in to dealing with any of Padmé’s old friends. There have been more executions in the past year than Rex would have ever thought the new emperor could get away with, but—apparently that’s one of the upsides of absolute power.

“I'm part of the Rebellion,” he says, because it’s true, because it’s been true since he stumbled into the mess with nothing but the burning, desperate desire to find a way to save his brothers.

Last time he saw Cody, standing proudly at the Emperor’s right hand, he’d thought he was going to be sick.

“Nothing you do will ever change that,” he says, quiet, certain, and Bly's posture goes tense and tight.

“Then maybe it’s better for you to die here,” Bly says coldly. “We have the rest of your little cell. You’ve failed, CT-7567.”

A lie. Rex isn't here with a cell. He works alone, because no one trusts a clone anymore. Not in the Rebellion. He and Wolffe and Gregor are just about the only ones left who still have names, who still have something besides the Empire, and he understands why it’s hard for anyone to look at them and not see stormtroopers, but—

His boots slip in the muck, and lightning flickers above them, a summer thunderstorm just about to break. It washes blue-gold light across the clearing, and in the momentary brilliance Rex can see Bly's hands tighten on his blaster.

“I didn’t fail,” Rex says, and swallows, taking another half-step back toward the glowing fungus. Thinks, for half an instant, that he can see the blood still streaked across the base from where Aayla was shot, but—

It’s been almost two years. There’s no way.

Bly snorts. “You're going to die here,” he says. “That sounds like failure to me.”

There's no way to get through to him. Not with the chip in his head. Not when Bly always liked following orders so much. Rex grits his teeth, trying not to let his gaze slip towards the jungle around them, trying not to give himself away. If he can just get into the forest, if he can lose Bly and the rest of his stormtroopers, he can find a way off the planet. There’s always someone willing to smuggle a person out in the name of pissing off the Empire, in his experience. He just needs—

Bly's comm crackles, suddenly so loud that Rex can hear it clearly, and Bly jerks. “ _Sir—interference—energy signature near you—_ ” someone on the other end warns, and Bly's gaze flickers away for just one bare second, goes to the comm controls, and Rex _moves_.

He hurls himself back into the jungle, right past the spot where Aayla died. Ducks down, sliding behind a tangle of neon-bright fungus and skidding down an incline even as a shout rises behind him. Blaster shots pepper the fungi, but Rex picks up speed, bolting through the fronds and twisted growths. There's no path here, no way to know where he’s going, but right now, _away_ is more than enough.

Off to his right, like a firefly, something flickers blue and gold.

Rex only hesitates for a moment. Any direction is as good as another, and the ground here dips, will hide him from Bly. He skids down the slope, feeling the first splattering drops of rain, and swallows a curse as he finds himself in an even thicker part of the jungle. Everything is bright, the native fungi massive and looming. The footing is treacherous, slick, and there’s a stream already forming that Rex has to splash through. There's no time to worry about covering his tracks; he can hear Bly behind him, calling orders, and even though all of his brothers are slaves to the Empire now, they’re still _clones_. All their training is intact, all their abilities still present. Rex knows how good they are, the 327th especially. If he’s not extremely lucky, they're going to catch him.

Rex hates the thought of dying without even a _chance_ to free the clones. But—he hates the thought of karking _reeducation_ even more. If it comes down to a choice between death and _that_ , he’ll probably eat his blaster.

Grimly, desperately, Rex picks up his pace, ducks a blaster bolt that hits the mushroom beside him, and—

Blue. Brighter this time, longer, and he falters, almost stops. For a second he thinks he hears a voice in the distance, but he can't make out more than a vague tone, sharp and angry. Someone being hassled by the troopers, maybe, Rex thinks, and grimaces. Turns—

The light comes again, a ripple of blue across the edge of his vision, leading into the thickest part of the forest. Rex hesitates, but it repeats, an eddy of sapphire brilliance that twists and turns like it’s marking the path before fading into nothing.

Another blaster bolt passes so close Rex can feel the heat of it, and he curses, lunges. Throws himself into the fungus-trees, and finds that even if the jungle looks impenetrable here, there's an obvious path twisting through the towering fungus, clear and thankfully not underwater. With a breath of relief, Rex takes it at a run, as fast as he dares, and as the ground rises again he catches another flicker of blue. Left, this time, and Rex makes for it, pushing through fronds and under glowing, tilted caps that shake loose spores. They blind him, burning in his eyes before he can wipe the dust away, and he curses, stumbles as he scrubs at them.

A shot hits his shoulder, driving a shout from his throat and all the air from his lungs. He tumbles forward into the mud, and the impact makes darkness swim across his vision, makes him lose time. The world bends, and between falling and picking up his head, there are suddenly boots in front of him, white and mud-splattered.

Rex stares at them for a long, long moment, then gets his good arm under him. Forces himself to roll over, to stare up the barrel of the blaster into a blank helmet.

The gold is gone, the careful stripes, the _kama_. There's nothing left to show it’s Bly under the armor, and not just one face that’s exactly like millions of others.

This is what the empire did to them, Rex thinks, and says, “Take off your helmet. If you're going to kill me, at least show me your face.”

“No,” Bly says simply. “I don’t need to play to a traitor’s requests. You're nothing but a defective clone.”

Rex can't help it; he laughs. One hand pressed over the blaster wound, mud in his hair, the barrel of a blaster practically touching his skull, and all he can do is laugh. He’s always been a little defective, a blond clone, a little too quick. He definitely malfunctioned when it came to following Order 66.

“Yeah,” he rasps, and slumps back to the ground. Regrets, bitterly, _viciously_ , that he’ll never know if the lead he came here to follow would have played out. It was a way to short out the chips, a way to free his fellow clones, and now he’ll never find out if it would have worked. The Rebellion doesn’t know about the chips. The Rebellion just thinks the clone troopers turned on their Jedi and _murdered_ them.

Staring into Bly's blank helmet, Rex remembers the way he loved Aayla so fiercely, so quietly. Wonders, raw, what it would do to him to realize that he shot her in the back.

“Aayla would have forgiven you,” he says, because he knows that much. The question is only whether Bly would forgive himself. Whether _any_ of his brothers would forgive themselves, if they came back.

“She was a traitor,” Bly says, like it’s something rote, something built into his being. “I don’t care if she would have or not.” His blaster steadies, aimed right at the center of Rex's chest. “Any last-minute confessions, CT-7567?”

Something blue flickers all around them, like lightning.

Rex swallows, and—his heart is racing, he _hurts_ , but somehow, he’s not afraid. Not at peace with death, not even close, but somehow, in some way, it feels like it was always going to end like this. And really, if Rex has to die, there’s no one he would want to pull the trigger more than a brother. This is still losing, but it’s not an enemy winning. It’s just a brother Rex couldn’t save, finally taking his due.

“Yeah,” he says, and doesn’t close his eyes, doesn’t look away even as the lightning washes indigo and gold shadows all around them. “I think you're an insufferable hidebound bastard, Bly, and your shiny cheek tattoo is stupid.”

Bly growls, and his finger twitches. Rex wrenches to the side, even knowing he’s too late, sees the flare of red—

The world burns _blue_ , and everything stops.

Slowly, slowly, his heart racing, Rex lifts his eyes from the frozen blaster bolt, hanging perfectly still in midair. Looks up, right into the heart of blue fire, and feels his breath catch hard and sharp in his chest. Hears Bly's choked sound, his step back, but can't pull his gaze away from the figure in the air above them.

She’s all light, blue brilliance. Vaguely the image of a woman, but hazy, uncertain. The glow of her is blinding, hard to see through, and Rex thinks he catches a glimpse of lekku instead of hair, blue skin—

Thinks of the place where Bly caught him, the bloodstains on the ground, and freezes.

“General Secura?” he manages, hoarse. “I—Aayla? Master Secura?”

She turns her head, and Rex is about as Force-sensitive as a _rock_ , but even he can feel the pressure in the air around her, the roil of power that stirs the earth beneath them. It vibrates along his bones, makes his teeth ache from the force of it, and he pulls back on instinct, scrambling away as she descends only to run up hard against the trunk of a tall, spindly fungus.

Her feet don’t leave any marks in the soft ground, and Rex can't quite catch his breath.

There's a shout, furious, _fearful_ , and Bly's blaster sounds. The bolt barely makes it past the barrel before it freezes, and Aayla turns her head, _looks_ at him, and—

The blaster falls apart in his hands.

Bly's feet go out from under him, and he staggers back, slams into a jut of stone. Freezes there, fear obvious in every line of his body, as Aayla steps towards him. Her figure blurs with the motion, light bleeding off her skin, and the hand she raises is translucent, burning.

“ ** _Bly_** ,” she says, and it echoes, as if it’s coming from a great distance. “ ** _There you are. I've been waiting._** ”

For one mad moment, Rex wonders if he should distract her, try to drive her away. Wonders if she’s a threat, if he’s about to watch Bly dissolve the same way his blaster did, and he scrambles upright, staggers as his head spins dangerously, and says desperately, “Aayla! Aayla, don’t _hurt_ him—”

Glowing fingers grip Bly's helmet, pulling it free. It tumbles into the muck, rolling away, and Bly stares at the blazing figure of his former general like he can't believe his eyes.

“You're a traitor,” he breathes. “I executed you.”

If Aayla hears him, there's no sign. She smiles, warm, _kind_ , and leans in, pulling his head down. Taps their foreheads together, just lightly, and says, rippling, echoing, “ ** _I've been waiting for you for four thousand years, Bly._** ”

Something cold prickles down Rex's spine, and he takes a half-step back. Aayla, maybe, but—clearly not _just_ Aayla. If this was a thing that happened sometimes with Jedi, _someone_ would have mentioned it.

“I killed you,” Bly says again, shaken. “You're a traitor to the Republic. You betrayed us.”

The once-leather wraps around Aayla's lekku are gold, bright enough that Rex can't quite look at them. The same gold is bleeding into the air around her, into Bly's armor, into the smear of color tattooed across his cheek. Becoming more real, Rex thinks, and swallows, takes another half-step back. His arm hangs useless, and blood loss is already making his head spin, but if he runs now—

But that would mean leaving Bly with something unknown. That would mean potentially abandoning one of the last surviving Jedi. Rex can't do that.

“Aayla,” he says, more firmly. “Master Secura. What are you _doing_ here?”

There's a long, long pause before Aayla finally lifts her head from Bly's, turns. In her wake Bly gasps out a ragged breath and crumples to the base of the stone, clutching his head, but Aayla hardly seems to notice. She flows towards Rex, more light given shape than a physical being, and reaches for him with both hands.

Rex debates leaping out of range for a fraction of a second, but—maybe he picked up a few too many bad habits from Anakin and Ahsoka, because he plants his feet and stands his ground, and he doesn’t move as slim, fire-bright hands come up to cup his face.

“ ** _Captain_** ,” Aayla says, and smiles at him, sad but serene. “ ** _You’ve been fighting so hard. You must be tired_**.”

Her touch feels like coming back to awareness after weeks in a darkened bacta tank. Feels like _more_ , so vivid and _real_ that Rex twitches, has to close his eyes to marshal himself. “Not that tired,” he says roughly, but Aayla isn't looking _at_ him so much as _through_ him, and her gaze is something so utterly alien and _strange_ that it makes goosebumps break out across his arms, the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He freezes there, and Aayla breathes out stardust and light and drops one hand, splaying it over his chest. If she notices the blood or the mud, that doesn’t show either. But—

The press of her hand feels like a kick behind the ribs, and Rex jerks, tries to wrench away and _can't_. His feet are frozen to the ground.

“ ** _How many brothers did you lose, Captain?_** ” she asks, sad, and Rex grits his teeth to stop his eyes from blurring. Feels too much, right now, like he’s standing over Fives's body again, or holding Waxer as he died, or seeing Cody standing beside a Sith Lord, guarding him with his body.

“All of them,” he whispers, and Aayla's too-beautiful, too-bright face twists in sympathetic grief. Just for a moment, she glows brighter, a star trapped on earth, and her hand is _hot_ against his chest, almost hot enough to burn the skin even through his clothes. Rex hisses, jerks, but still can't pull away, and Aayla doesn’t move. Looks at him, one long moment of contemplation, and then tilts her head.

“ ** _Time is so strange_** ,” she says, and the echo is softer, like her voice is fading away, getting more distant. “ ** _When did the galaxy start to fall apart?_** ”

“Five years ago,” Rex says, only a little bitterly. The Clone Wars were the start of everything, or the culmination of it. Carefully orchestrated, carefully arranged to leave the Jedi vulnerable, stretched thin, hated. The clones were Sidious’s weapon of choice, and they did exactly what they were designed to do. They killed Jedi, and they lost themselves.

“ ** _So long_** ,” Aayla says. “ ** _But somehow, it’s no time at all_**.” Her head turns, gaze sliding back to Bly and in a moment she’s across the space between them, leaning over him. Rex staggers, suddenly released, but can't catch his balance. He hits the ground on one knee, black spots spinning behind his eyes, and has to concentrate on breathing for a moment.

“Aayla,” he rasps. “Aayla, what _is_ this? Why are you here?”

Just for an instant, she hesitates. Her hand pauses, hovering over Bly's head, and she goes still. “ ** _I've been waiting_** ,” she repeats, and raises her head. Turning, she looks back at Rex, and her expression seems slightly clearer, not dreamy distance but actual recognition. “ ** _I've been waiting for a chance, Rex._** ”

“A chance at _what_?” Rex asks, bewildered. Felucia is beautiful, but it’s in the middle of the Outer Rim, far from anywhere. With as much power as she has, _surely_ Aayla could have gotten somewhere else if she needed to, or even called some of the remaining Jedi to her. Her master, even; Rex has seen Quinlan Vos in his work more than once, and he would have come the instant he even suspected that Aayla was alive.

Aayla pauses, turns. A flicker of gold like lightning and suddenly she’s leaning over him, a billowing burn of blue light and a vaguely Twi’lek shape within.

“ ** _Just a chance_** ,” she says and smiles. “ ** _That’s all you need, isn't it_**?”

The world falls out from beneath him in a wash of blue and gold, and Rex falls too, Aayla's handprint burning on his chest. The last thing he hears is Bly's shout, echoing in his ears.

“Rex!”

Cody groans, stretching out sore arms that don’t appreciate being held perfectly still and steady in a sniper’s perch for hours on end. “You know, vod,” he says, “I think you might be on to something with the blaster pistols.”

Rex smirks at him, like he’s a full-fledged captain and not still a trainee in his reds. “Finally coming around to my point of view, Cody?” he asks, and Cody rolls his eyes and the smug tone and smacks him over the head. It makes Rex yelp and duck away, then turn on him with a deeply offended look. “Ow! You’ve still got your gauntlets on, asshole.”

“I know,” Cody says easily, and chuckles at Rex's glare. “And my rifle’s fine, but the taking the lazy way out and going for a couple of pistols seems like a good alternative sometimes.”

“Oh, get karked,” Rex says, and shoves at him. Cody shoves back, not about to let that stand, and Rex laughs as he tumbles sideways into the window, bouncing off the transparisteel and using the momentum to hip-check Cody into the other wall. They almost slam into another clone as they go down, and he has to lunge to keep his stack of datapads from clattering to the ground.

“Watch it!” CC-5052 says, offended, but Cody is in all the same command-track classes with him and knows how much of a stick in the swamp he is, so he doesn’t do more than make a rude hand gesture as he twists to get Rex in a headlock. CC-5052 growls, but he leaves them to it, and Cody pins Rex with a sharp twist and doesn’t let him up until he stops hissing curses.

“Kriff, _fine_!” he says, and bats at Cody ineffectually. “I give up already!”

“That’s what happens when you tangle with a commander,” Cody says, and grinds his knuckles into Rex's blond buzz-cut, just because he can. It makes Rex squawk, and Cody snickers, rising to his feet. Rex lies where he is for a moment, facedown on the floor, and Cody snorts and nudges him with a toe. “Dead, vod?” he asks.

“Plotting my revenge,” Rex says, muffled, but after a second he rolls over, reaches up. Cody rolls his eyes, but grabs his hand, hauling him up as he gets his feet under him, and dodges the foot-sweep Rex tries with perfect nonchalance.

“Yeah?” he asks, amused. “I hope the rest of it goes better than that.”

“You're insufferable,” Rex says, pulling a face at him. “I hope your Jedi drops you in the middle of a desert somewhere and leaves you there.”

“They would never,” Cody says, unbothered by the idea. He knows exactly how to make himself valuable, after all, and the Jedi are supposed to be some of the greatest warriors in the galaxy. The trainers don’t talk about them all the time, but when they do, every single clone sits up and listens.

They were made for the Jedi. All of them, down to the last clone. They're meant to protect the Jedi, to serve with them, to fight alongside them. Every clone knows it.

Cody’s not about to screw that up.

“What do you think they’ll be like?” he asks in a moment of whimsy, something he normally wouldn’t allow himself, but—Jango himself was in their hand-to-hand class this morning, and he’d shown Cody a disarming trick that he hadn’t taught anyone else, and Cody's riding the endorphin high of that.

“Our generals?” Rex asks, and shrugs. “No idea. What are any Jedi like? But I bet I get stuck with the most hidebound old twig-sucker in the whole Order—”

Blue light flares.

Cody catches the flicker of movement in the wide windows first, bright against Kamino’s stormy backdrop. Brilliant azure, bright as a sun, and something steps right out of nothing. A woman, Cody thinks, a Twi’lek, but also _not_ because Twi’leks aren’t made of light and fire, and he grabs for Rex's arm, wrenches around and steps in front of him—

Feels his hand slip, as if he’s suddenly gripping air.

The Twi’lek steps forward, and there's something fierce and focused on her face, her brown eyes blazing. “ ** _There you are_** ,” she says, distant, echoing, like ripples across still water. She reaches out, and the sheer _force_ of her presence knocks Cody back. He trips, stumbles, lands on his ass, and before he can so much as scramble any closer to upright, the woman is in front of Rex. Rex, who’s still on his feet like that blast didn’t even _touch_ him, who’s staring at her with bewilderment but _isn't moving away_.

“Rex!” Cody says, alarm filing it down into a bark of command, but it’s too late. The Twi’lek’s hand closes around his arm, and she smiles.

“ ** _You can't wake up here_** ,” she says. “ ** _He’s waiting. And so are you._** ”

And then, in a ripple of blue fire, they're gone.

For an endless moment, Cody stares at the empty hallway, halfway to his feet. Can't breathe, can't think, because Rex _vanished_. There's no trace of him except the tingle in his hand where Rex's arm slipped from his grasp.

“What the heck,” Cody breathes, but there’s no answer from the deserted hall or the storm-lashed windows. Just a fading glow of blue, and the sinking, surging feeling that something is very, very wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

Being back on Tatooine _again_ isn't something Quinlan is overly happy about, especially after the mess that happened last time he was on the planet. A mess he couldn’t even help with, despite Obi-Wan being barely a handful of kilometers away, because he hadn’t _known_. He and Aayla hadn’t even realized there was another team of Jedi around until Qui-Gon had made ten stupid decisions and fought a Sith, and at that point there was no salvaging anything except their own mission.

Still. This time, it’s been at least relatively quiet, without any refugee queens or Darksider Zabraks. Quinlan watches the flow of foot traffic pass, waiting for some glimpse of the bounty hunter they're here to find, and keeps half of his attention on the quiet cursing he can hear from the parts dealer next door. Apparently some bit of machinery is giving the slave woman minding the place some trouble, because she’s got an extensive vocabulary and is showing it off.

“Anything?” he asks, leaning back a little further and crossing his boots at the ankle.

Aayla, perched next to him with her legs crossed under her, hums and taps at her datapad. “Not yet,” she says. “I'm hardly a slicer, Master.”

“Better than me,” Quinlan says pointedly, and lightly nudges the leg of her chair to shift it. Aayla sways, but doesn’t otherwise seem to notice; she doesn’t look up, but Quinlan's own chair shakes faintly, and he huffs and stops. Aayla's never exactly figured how to _stop_ escalating once she’s challenged. Not that that has anything to do with Quinlan's influence, of course.

Aayla smirks faintly. “I think even Ki-Adi-Mundi is a better slicer than you, Master,” she says, and laughs when Quinlan scowls at her. “I'm agreeing with you, that’s all.”

“You're a brat,” Quinlan retorts, but movement in the shop across the street draws his attention. Their bounty hunter is looming over a Rodian, who’s bristling in return, and Quinlan can feel the aggressive roil of emotion. “Aayla,” he says sharply, and shoves to his feet, reaching for his lightsaber.

In an instant, Aayla is up as well, falling in one step behind him. “Should I circle around?” she asks softly.

“No. Cad Bane’s dangerous for two Jedi, let alone one new Knight,” Quinlan says grimly, and if he’d known their bounty hunter’s identity before this, he might have requested backup. Bane’s not going to take well to Jedi accosting him, even if all they want is information on someone who double-crossed him. Jango Fett’s the only one he’d consider more dangerous in all of the Outer Rim.

“Don’t get overconfident again, Master,” Aayla says, perfectly innocent, but when Quinlan turns a pointed look on her, her smile is all cheek.

“I should have left you with Master Tholme,” Quinlan retorts, though he doesn’t mean it. He’s missed having Aayla along on his missions since she was Knighted.

Aayla chuckles, lekku curling. “He would have yelled at you for babying me,” she points out slyly. “And—”

Blue light, nova-bright and _burning_.

Quinlan wrenches around as the first screams rise, heart in his throat, expecting an attack, a weapon, a blaster cannon. But there isn't anything. Just Aayla, stumbling forward with her eyes widening in shock, her body suddenly _translucent_ like she’s turning into light. Her brown headwrap slips sideways into gold, her body brightens, and her head snaps up.

Quinlan doesn’t even think. He lunges, grabbing for her, and Aayla reaches back, fear rising. It makes Quinlan's heart jar sideways in his chest, and he snarls, “ _Aayla_!” like that will do anything at all.

Aayla's hands grab onto his, and Quinlan tries to haul her forward, to wrench her out of the grasp of whatever’s holding her, and he only just got her _back_ , he only just found her again—

The fear slides out of Aayla's eyes, and her lips part. As that wash of blue light consumes her completely, she stumbles forward, right into Quinlan's arms, but he can't grasp her, can't hold her. It’s like trying to grab for sand, like diving headlong into a sun and trying to keep it from burning. Pure Force burns Quinlan's skin, sears across his body, and he snarls, _reaches_.

It’s no use. Aayla's breath catches, and she raises her hands, catches Quinlan's. her touch is painful, consuming, but Quinlan wraps his hands around her own and says, “Aayla, come on, _fight it_ , I’ll save you—”

In the midst of blue fire, Aayla smiles. “ ** _Don’t be afraid, Master_** ,” she says, and it’s like her voice is coming from far away, echoing across a vast expanse of darkness to reach him. “ ** _I'm just going to find Bly. He needs me._** ”

“ _I_ need you, Aayla,” Quinlan bites out, furious. Drags her in, but it’s like trying to wrap his arms around sunlight. “Aayla, who is Bly? What the hells is this?”

It feels like every inch of his skin is being slowly stripped away by the sheer _power_ tangled up around Aayla, but when she squeezes his hands, Quinlan squeezes back desperately. “ ** _We’re going to fix things_** ,” she says. “ ** _I brought them back, Master. I’ll save us._** ”

“Save us,” Quinlan repeats. “Aayla, save us from _what_? What’s happening to you?”

“ ** _I’m remembering_** ,” Aayla says, as if it’s obvious. “ ** _I'm remembering what hasn’t happened yet_**.” Her eyes lift, focusing elsewhere, and she takes a breath. “ ** _Kamino is so full of life_** ,” she says, and her mouth firms, a familiar, determined slant that Quinlan knows to fear through long exposure. “ ** _I'm going to save them all, and all of us, too_**.”

Quinlan goes _cold_. “Aayla, _no_ —” he starts, but it’s too late.

One burst of blue light, as hot as the twin suns above them, and the force of it throws Quinlan back all the way across the street. He slams into the stone of the building behind them, too sudden to even try to catch himself, and the crack of his skull hitting the wall sends darkness swirling across his eyes. With a choked groan, he hits the ground, and every part of him feels burned, bruised. Even so, he tries to get an arm under himself, tries to push upright, but can't.

He collapses, and hands catch him. Small, callused hands, and the woman who leans over him has greying hair and dark eyes, a presence that echoes and sings and settles the ache just a little.

“Easy, Master Jedi,” she says, and the worry in her eyes makes Quinlan close his own, thinking of Aayla. He needs to find her, needs to _save_ her, but—

He loses the fight to stay conscious, and then there's only darkness.

The world collapses back into being with a rush of drenching humidity, a wash of water-wet-earth smells, a flare of light like an indigo flame. Rex catches one half-second glimpse of Aayla in the dimness, feels a _wrench_ like he just hit something solid, and goes crashing sideways into reality with a cry. He hits the ground hard, shoulder-first, and the pain jars all the breath from his lungs, makes his vision go black. He rolls—

Hits something. Hits something that _yelps_ , and topples over, and they both go down in a tangle of limbs.

For one moment Rex can't figure out which way is up, isn't sure that he _wants_ to. He groans, his whole body throbbing, head swimming, and he knows he’s sprawled on top of someone else but picking his head up seems like far more work than it’s worth right now. It’s dim, green-grey light all around him, and he just wants to close his eyes and let everything fade away.

And then, like a shock, hands close over his shoulders. Rex hisses, jerks at the flare of pain and tries to roll away, but immediately the grip lightens. Those hands help instead of grab, and in an instant Rex is sprawled on his back in yet more mud, staring up at the spinning trees above him. It takes him a moment to realize that it’s probably his head spinning, rather than the greenery, and another moment to remember that Felucia doesn’t _have_ trees in the usual sense, but—

Some kind of Force spirit or manifestation or _something_ just put on Aayla's face, grabbed him, and dragged him out of reality and then back into it. Not being on Felucia anymore probably isn't that great of a shock.

There's something whispering, too. Something heady and bright and burning, steady beneath his back. something that feels like standing in the wake of a supernova, but without any of the violent nuclear reaction that implies. This is warmth and age and _peace_ , heady and bewildering, filling all of Rex's senses, and there's so _much_ of it that Rex doesn’t have any idea what to do except endure it.

Somewhere beyond him, there's a rustle of cloth, and then a hand on his good shoulder. Re twitches on instinct, because it’s been two long years since the last time anyone tried for a casual touch, but the pain kills any thought of moving before it can even start. He groans, and the hand tightens faintly.

“Easy,” a voice says, low, probably male. Another hand curls over Rex's brow, stilling him, and the man says, “I can help. May I take your shirt off?”

“Take,” Rex echoes, but—he knows medics. “You mean _cut_.”

There's a pause, almost startled, and then a quiet huff. “Yes,” the man says, a little dry. “Unless you want to try to get that arm above your head to pull it off yourself.”

“Should’ve gone with the buttons,” Rex mutters, but nods. “Do it.”

A hiss of metal against leather comes, and a moment later a vibroblade slices through the material of Rex's shirt, cutting away the sleeve and then part of the shoulder. Rex concentrates on the trees, on the edge of dark brown he can see as the man moves—not hair, but a cloak, heavy and concealing, hiding everything. Beyond him, there's mist and dripping trees and curling, arching roots, and between that and the humidity and the wet suck of yet more mud under his back, there's only one possible conclusion.

“Swamp planet?” he asks vaguely. “Never did have much luck with those.”

The hands pause for just a second, then keep moving, pulling the sections of Rex's shirt away. Rex expects the man to reach for bacta, to move to find wrappings, but instead he lays his hands on either side of the blaster wound and says, “Yes. But it’s a very special swamp planet.” Another pause, careful, and then the man asks quietly, “You can feel it, can't you? It’s…pure.”

Rex blinks, but—maybe he can. That thrum of _being_ under his back, steady and warm, like the stretched-out beat of a heart. It makes him feel…something. Easier, maybe. More willing to close his eyes and sleep, when for years now sleep has been a weakness, something to surrender to when absolutely necessary.

He grunts, tipping his head to get a better look at his companion, who’s still kneeling over him. “Bacta?” he asks, prompting. Not impatient, but—there's no saying if Aayla will turn up again to drag him off to somewhere else. Bly isn't here, after all, and Rex is absolutely certain that Aayla, no matter what happened to her, wouldn’t leave Bly to the Empire.

The hooded head turns, and Rex gets the impression that the man beneath the hood’s shadows is smiling, just faintly. “I don’t need bacta,” he says, and lifts his hands. “Not on Dagobah.”

Rex blinks, then looks down. The skin of his shoulder is unbroken. There's a scar that stretches white and spiderwebby across it, but Rex can't feel any trace of stiffness, any hint of pain. Startled, he sits up, and though his head spins it’s milder than it was a moment ago. When he flexes his arm, the pull of the scar tissue is hardly noticeable, and he lets out a breath, then looks up.

The man watching him is Human, probably, but it’s hard to tell beneath the oversized grey-brown robe and baggy clothes beneath. They look worn, too, heavily weathered and just a little ragged. And—

Familiar. They look _familiar_.

Rex's gaze flickers down, and catches on the unmistakable shape of a lightsaber’s hilt, clipped to the wide brown sash around the man’s waist. Healing, he thinks, stunned. That was Force Healing, and this is a _Jedi_ , and beyond Quinlan Vos Rex hasn’t even _seen_ a Jedi in two years.

“You—you're a Jedi,” he manages, ragged.

The man pauses for a long moment, then reaches up. Carefully, deliberately, he eases his hood back, and the face that’s revealed isn't one Rex has ever seen before—rough more than handsome, scarred, angular in a way that’s arresting but also vaguely unsettling. Or maybe that’s the pale eyes, startling against his dark hair. Rex would have remembered a general who looked like him, but he’s absolutely sure he never met him during the war.

“Yes,” he says after a beat. “Jedi Master Jon Antilles.”

Rex blinks, pulling back slightly. “Jon _Antilles_?” he repeats, because he’s never heard a name that’s sounded closer to fake. Two of the blandest names he can think of, sandwiched together, and…they don’t fit.

Jon grimaces. “It’s not like _I_ picked it,” he says, and Rex snorts, allowing that. It’s not as if his brothers always picked the best names, either, when they were able to, and they _did_ usually have a choice. But—

“Master,” he says, and it feels like relief. “You escaped? Were you on a mission when the order went out? Were there any others?”

He shouldn’t ask. It’s a risk for him to know, for him to even see Jon's face, but—so many Jedi were killed in the Purge. So many Masters and padawans alike, and Rex had been in the Temple on Coruscant right after, had seen the security holos, had seen the aftermath.

Anakin killed _children_. He slaughtered them, and left their bodies, and he used brothers to do it. Some part of Rex won't ever forgive him for that.

The silence stretches, but—it’s not pained. Jon is frowning at him, confusion clear on his face, and after a long moment he repeats, “Order,” like he has no idea what Rex means.

Rex's throat closes. The words are almost impossible to get out, but after a painful second he manages, “Order 66. When—when the clone troopers turned on the Jedi. Your men—they didn’t. They weren’t in control of themselves.”

Jon draws back, expression sliding towards something unsettled. “What clone troopers?” he asks. “Jedi don’t lead forces. We don’t _have_ men.”

It’s been two years since the Empire rose. There's no way any Jedi, even the most distant, hermit-like one, could have missed that. Vos had said, too, that he could feel every Jedi death in the Force, that there was no way _not_ to know what had happened. “The Empire,” he says desperately. “You know about the Empire?”

Dark brows furrow, and Jon looks him over oddly. “When I was on Florrum two weeks ago, the people there were rather convinced that there was still a Galactic Republic,” he says, just a little dry, “given the amount of complaining I heard about it.” He pauses, and then says, “Unless there's an empire I should be aware of.”

There's something simultaneously sinking and rising in Rex's chest, a surge of disbelief and almost gutting relief, and he wavers, sinks back. Tries to think how to ask the question beating a tattoo in his mind without sounding crazier than a mind-flayer’s chew toy, and finally manages, “I—how long ago was the Stark Hyperspace War?”

Jon blinks, raises a brow at him. “Twenty-one years ago,” he says, bemused. “I’m fairly sure Iaco Stark wasn’t running an empire. Or at least he wouldn’t have called it that.”

Rex can't answer, hardly even registers the end of the sentence. Twenty-one years since the conflict, but—

When he woke up on Felucia, it had been almost twenty-seven.

The Clone Wars haven’t started yet. Geonosis hasn’t happened, Dooku hasn’t become the Separatist leader, Anakin isn't even a _Knight_ yet. He and Padmé aren’t married, haven’t met again after years apart. Back on Kamino, Cody hasn’t gotten past command training yet, and is probably still picking on everyone around him like the bastard son of a cloning vat he is. And Rex—

Rex is here, without any of the aches from old injuries. Just the new one, and even that is fading away with a speed he doesn’t expect. When Rex looks down at his hands, they’re almost entirely unscarred, only one deep mark from weapons training slanting across the back of his hand. It looks fresh, too, only just healed, and Rex has to swallow. The timeline’s about right for it to have happened. He remembers the day, because Keeli had had a minor heart attack over all the blood, and he’d panicked more than Rex had about it. And that was—a year and a few months before Geonosis. Maybe a year and seven months, all together.

“Oh,” he says, and swallows. “I—the Order?”

Jon is still watching him closely, pale eyes narrowed but not hostile. Thoughtful, maybe, more than anything. “You talk like you're not a part of it,” he says. Studies Rex as Rex freezes, bewildered, and says, “You feel it too. The planet around us.”

Rex opens his mouth to deny it, then pauses. He can feel _something_ , and it’s just as clear now as it was when he was bleeding out, so clearly it’s not a hallucination. Closing his mouth, he frowns, but that humming _presence_ is undeniable. It sits right against his spine, steady and warm, and there's an awareness that comes with it, a knowledge that he’s not alone on this planet, in this clearing. Even if it was perfectly dark, even if he closed his eyes and turned away, he’d _know_ Jon was sitting across from him, watching him. Breathing in time with the planet, and—

It should be more unsettling than it is.

“I'm not,” he says anyway, and the protest is kneejerk, almost desperate. When Jon raises a brow at him, Rex shoves to his feet, takes a step back. “I'm _not_ ,” he says sharply. And—landing five years in the past is one thing. Aayla did that. She was talking about time, and she grabbed Rex, and she chucked him _here_ , practically into Jon's lap. That’s fine. Jedi are weird, and there’s no telling what they’ll do, and Rex has a long, storied history of Jedi grabbing him and flinging him wherever they want. It’s _fine_.

But Rex? _Force-sensitive_? That’s the biggest joke he’s ever heard.

Slowly, deliberately, Jon rises to his feet, though he doesn’t step closer. Just faces Rex, body language quiet, eyes thoughtful. “Look down,” he says softly.

Rex blinks, but after a second he does. Can't figure out what Jon is talking about, because there's nothing but damp earth and mud beneath his feet, caked into his pants and the remnants of his shirt—

Azure-blue against his dark skin, a handprint glows.

Rex stills. Stares, uncertain, unsettled, at the mark of Aayla's hand imprinted on his chest, exactly where she touched him before. It’s a strange, eerie echo of the handprint he once put on Echo’s armor in eel blood, and for a moment his hand hovers over it, bewildered, before he gives in and touches it. The skin feels strangely slick, like a burn scar, and he swallows hard.

Carefully, Jon takes a step closer, raising his hand. “May I?” he asks quietly.

Rex nods before he can think better of it. Always before, clones were free with touch, didn’t think anything of grabbing each other or invading personal space, and it’s been two years but Rex still has that instinctive reaction. Touch is good, touch is welcome, and Jon is a stranger but it doesn’t matter. He helped, and he healed, and—

His fingers are gentle on Rex's chest, and his hand is bigger than Aayla's but he still fits it over the print, frowning faintly. The skin-warmth makes Rex twitch, but Jon doesn’t do more than flick a glance up at his face, searching.

“Whatever brought you here made this,” he says quietly. “I've never felt anything like it before. It’s like…a conduit.”

“She was a Jedi,” Rex says, and the words stick in his throat. “Before. But she died, and then she was…something else.”

Jon slowly lifts his hand, and when he raises his head, his expression is caught in something quietly wondering, edged with a faith that burns to see. Or maybe Rex can _feel_ it, and that’s why it strikes him so hard. “Where?” he asks. “Where did she die?”

“Felucia,” Rex answers without hesitation. If this is a Jedi thing, if Jon knows what happened, maybe he can help Rex find Bly, find Aayla. They must both be alive in this time, so—they're somewhere, and even if Rex isn't sure why they're somewhere else, he’d be happy enough just to find them.

“Oh.” Jon frowns, steps back. He curls a hand, like he’s trying to hang on to the feeling of Aayla's mark, and then says, “Felucia is…strong. In the Force. Like Dagobah, but in a different way. If she died there, some part of her spirit might have stayed when she joined the Force.”

Rex swallows, remembering the blood on the roots, the reports he heard. Both Barriss and Aayla died on Felucia, and— “She didn’t get a pyre,” he says. “There was…no one left to give her one.”

Jon grimaces, inclining his head. “That might have helped her transformation,” he says. “But…I've never heard of such a thing before. It’s just a guess.”

“There's a lot of that going around,” Rex says, rueful, and touches the handprint again. Breathes, for just a moment, and then looks at Jon helplessly. “I can't—I'm not a Jedi. I _can't_ be Force-sensitive.”

“You weren’t before, maybe,” Jon says, unwavering, “but you are now. And being a Jedi comes with training.” He glances up towards the mist-choked sky, and then says, “She threw you at me.”

Rex makes a face. “I get that a lot,” he mutters.

With a quiet snort, Jon steps back. “I assume,” he says dryly, “that she had a reason.”

“Because I was bleeding out and you were nearby?” Rex asks, wary.

Jon turns away, heading for a small rucksack by a fallen tree. “That too, I'm sure,” he says, and digs through it, coming up a moment later with a dark undertunic and another set of brown robes, a few shades darker than the ones Rex is used to. “Here. To replace the one I cut.”

They look well-worn, carefully patched. Rex takes them, frowning, and raises a brow. “You don’t get back to the temples much, do you?” he asks, but starts stripping off the rags of his shirt regardless.

“I haven’t been to one in years,” Jon says simply, and straightens, watching Rex fumble with the sashes. “I'm not that kind of Jedi.”

Rex hadn’t been aware there were _kinds_. He eyes Jon skeptically, finally finding the sash’s clip, and—it feels unspeakably odd to be wearing a Jedi's robes, even temporarily. He’s _not_ a Jedi. A brand new sense of the Force doesn’t change that.

“Then why would Aayla bring me here?” he asks. Thinks _I'm five years in the past_ , and can't breathe all over again. He needs—he needs to do _something_. Assassinate Dooku, or Palpatine. He has the opportunity. He can _change_ things.

_Just a chance. That’s all you need, isn't it?_

Rex breathes in, breathes out. Aayla was right. That’s all he needs.

When he looks up, Jon is watching him again, expression unreadable. At the sight of Rex’s frown, he turns away, pulling his hood back up over his head like he’s struck with the sudden urge to hide his face.

“I assume it’s because I was the only Jedi on Dagobah,” he says quietly. “Or maybe because I'm…not a traditional Jedi.”

If he doesn’t visit the temples, Rex can imagine not. A little confused, he takes a step after Jon, and when he picks up his pack, asks in mild alarm, “You're _leaving_?”

“My ship is this way,” Jon says without looking back. “The planet is deserted. If you want to stay, that’s fine. But there's only one way off right now.”

Rex is hardly about to _stay_ on a swamp planet all by himself, regardless of how nice the Force feels here. Quickly, he follows Jon into the trees, trying to mimic the placement of his steps to keep from sinking into the thick, green-grey mud. “And where exactly are you going? Back to Coruscant?”

“I've never been to Coruscant, so it would be hard to go back there.” Jon doesn’t turn, and Rex rolls his eyes at his back, trying to keep pace in the unfamiliar terrain. It’s clear Jon's been here enough times to know how to move. Or he’s using the Force, but—Rex wants to believe it’s the former, so that he doesn’t have to think about how _he_ could probably do the same with enough training.

“You're just going to pack up and fly away?” Rex demands.

Jon finally turns his head, just slightly. “I go where the Force wants me to,” he says. “It brought me here. And when you appeared, it started to call me elsewhere. Towards the Unknown Regions. I assume I'm supposed to take you there.”

Rex will never, _ever_ understand Jedi. Anakin, at least, was all recklessness and a much more Human sort of instinct, but—Rex saw Obi-Wan plenty of times do something insane and then protest that the Force had guided him to that decision. Gritting his teeth, he follows Jon towards the low-slung body of a ship perched on an outcropping of moss-covered rocks, and asks, “What the hell is in the Unknown Regions that I need to see? There's—I know you won't believe me, but there's a war coming, and I have to—”

“I believe you,” Jon says quietly, and leaps to the top of the rocks with a limber, physics-defying twist that lands him in a crouch by the ramp.

For a long moment, Rex stares at him, disbelieving, and then drops his gaze to eye the outcropping. It’s practically sheer, and Rex left his rappelling lines back on Felucia with the rest of his gear.

Jon stays where he is for a long moment, then makes a sound that’s almost a sigh. Lifts a hand, and says, “Sorry. Brace yourself.”

Rex grimaces, but at least Jon doesn’t haul him up off his feet and _throw_ him at the ship. It’s a slow, gentle lift, and there isn't even the familiar lurch of unease in his stomach at the height. As his feet hit the rock, he takes a careful step, catches his balance, and asks, “Where exactly are we going in the Unknown Regions, then?”

A part of him still wants to argue, to make Jon turn his ship towards the Core and head of Coruscant, kill Palpatine before he can even realize there’s a threat. But—

Under his skin, like an itch, like a nagging thought that won't leave him alone, is a strange certainty that Jon is right. Heading for the Unknown Regions is what they're supposed to do, and Rex isn't about to argue. Not when the Jedi and his own instincts are both saying it.

Jon pulls his cloak a little more tightly around himself as he straightens, looking away. “Ilum,” he says, and vanishes into the belly of the ship before Rex can answer.

“What?” Rex says anyway, more than a little annoyed. “What is Ilum? And why do we need to go there?”

There's no answer. Rex rolls his eyes, but follows Jon into the ship and lets the ramp close behind him. “ _Di’kutla_ _Jetii_ ,” he says, and—maybe two years was long enough to forget what the Jedi were like.

“Practical, not idiotic,” Jon says, from close enough that it makes Rex startle. He jerks around to see Jon in the shadows, unclasping his cloak. “You can tell me what your Jedi Force spirit wants you to do while we travel.”

“Aayla,” Rex says, and—so strange, to be believed without hesitation. Even most Jedi wouldn’t do that, he’s pretty sure. But Jon said _I go where the Force wants me to_ like it was the one solid, unwavering truth in his life. And—maybe that’s a good sign, if it means he thinks he’s supposed to help.

Force knows Rex could use all the help he can get.


	3. Chapter 3

CC-5052 dreams of the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.

She’s lovely, all blue skin and ferocious grace and humor, cunning and sly and always ready with a smile. He stands behind her, beside her, at her shoulder, and she glances back at him, brown eyes so warm he feels it tug somewhere deep inside his chest, and when she reaches for him he reaches back, drops his blaster without a care and takes her hands, pulling her in.

A lek curls around his wrist, and he knows Twi’leks, knows what that means. His breath catches in his throat, and there's a heat inside his ribcage, indigo fire that licks up through his chest. He tightens his grip on her hands, and says, without quite knowing where the words come from, “You’re _reckless_.”

She laughs, because of course she does. A hand rises, cupping his cheek, and she leans in, smiles up at him. He drops his hands to her waist, pressing his fingertips into bare skin, and the beat of his own heart echoes in his head, too loud, too fast. She’s warm, like that same fire, and the limber grace of her is uncontained, overwhelming. He wants to pull her in, to wrap her in his arms and hold her, and it aches in his throat, the urge.

“All good Jedi are,” she says, and brushes her thumb across his cheek, expression going faintly wistful. “Will you make the same choices this time around, I wonder,” she murmurs, and—

He can't stand to see that look on her face. Can't stand to see her sad, not for anything in the world. “Most of them,” he says, and even if he doesn’t _know_ , can't remember, he knows that much. Whatever decisions will make her happy he’ll pick again in a heartbeat.

With a crooked smile, she looks at him for a long moment, then sighs, leaning in. she rests her forehead against his chest, and he wraps his arms around her instantly, pulls her in. Fire-hot inside his arms, and if he could keep her just like this, safe and sheltered and _with him_ for the rest of time, he’d never want for anything else.

“I missed you,” she says, sad and soft, and he swallows, tightens his grip. “I missed you for so long, and I kept waiting. I knew you’d come back one day.”

There's regret in him. Grief, though he doesn’t understand why. Guilt, too, sharp and furious and hard to breathe around. “I'm sorry,” he whispers, and dares to reach up, brushing the base of a lek with careful fingers. It makes her sigh, relaxing into his hold, and when she turns her head and looks up at him, her smile is wry.

“So am I,” she says, and leans up on her toes. He freezes, not sure what to do, but she puts her hand on his jaw, feathers the lightest of kisses over his mouth. Just that one small touch _ignites_ , and suddenly it isn't a woman he’s holding, it’s a star, a galaxy, a supernova. She _burns_ , but she doesn’t burn up, and he looks into her eyes and sees _everything_. Every thread, every thought, every soul in existence, and she’s tapped right into it like a live wire spitting sparks.

“ ** _I found you_** ,” she says, and it echoes, reverberates through his bones, her voice imprinting itself beneath his skin. “ ** _This time I won't let go._** ”

Everything vanishes, and he tumbles head over heels down into the spinning burning blue—

CC-5052 dreams, and he wakes, and he has a _name_.

It’s _Bly_.

For a long, long moment, Bly lies still, staring up at the top of his bunk, just trying to breathe. His breath rattles on every exhale, like he’s been running too hard, and on his jaw, three points of fire are burning.

Bly closes his eyes, presses his fingers over them. Right where her hand was, tattooed into his skin, and maybe he should protest, maybe he should hate it, but—

She was so beautiful, and so kind, and he _knew_ her. He knew her but it was just a dream.

With a muffled groan, Bly throws an arm over his eyes, closes them tightly. Behind his eyelids he can still see her, that first glimpse. Can feel her, the weight of her in his arms, the curl of her lek around his wrist, the butterfly-soft press of her mouth to his. He _aches_ , want and something deeper, something sharper, that feels like a hand around his heart and a kick in the teeth.

 _Just a dream_ , he tells himself, and opens his eyes. Hits the button to let his bed slide out, then leaps down before it’s even all the way out of the wall, and lands with an ease that’s almost surprising, half-asleep and entirely distracted.

There's a flicker of blue in the corner of his eye, and he turns instantly, heart beating hard in his throat.

In the gleaming silver of the bank of lockers is her reflection. There's no figure to cast it, no trace of anyone standing in the room, but still Bly can see her as clearly as if she’s right in front of him. Just a woman, smiling, lekku curling, reaching out.

Bly steps closer, reaches back before he can think to stop himself. She looks a strange sort of resigned, sorrow in the curve of her mouth, but—still happy. Still glad to see him, and Bly feels that kick behind his ribs again, short and hard enough to steal his breath.

“Who are you?” he asks out loud. “Why do I keep seeing you?”

She doesn’t answer. Just leans in, like she’s trapped behind a pane of glass, and splays a hand. Carefully, Bly lays his own over it, broad palm covering hers completely. He wants to wrap her in his arms again, to drag her close and hold her tight and apologize, even if he doesn’t know _why_.

He knows the weight of her, the way she laughs. He knows what her kisses taste like, and he knows she’s grace and lethal efficiency and impossible bravery, but—

Bly doesn’t know _how_ he knows that, or where he learned it. He’d never seen her before she slipped into his dream, but…she doesn’t seem to be leaving. Bly doesn’t _want_ her to leave.

“ _Where_ are you?” he asks the reflection, and her smile brightens, breaks into a silent laugh. She grins at him, and it makes Bly's pulse kick up one notch with instinctive adrenaline, a surge of eagerness and anticipation that his body knows even if his brain doesn’t. Deliberate, quick, she sketches out two words in the air, blue fire bleeding from her fingertips, and—

“Metellos-Ilum?” Bly asks with a frown. Metellos is a Core planet, he knows that much, but he’s never heard of Ilum before. With the names joined like that, they're clearly connected, but he can't see how. “You’re on Metellos?”

She hesitates, but after a moment she nods firmly, reaches out again. Her fingertips press tight to whatever is holding her back, splayed, strong, and she leans forward to rest her forehead against the barrier.

Throat tight, ribs aching, Bly covers her hand with his own again, then leans in, pressing his own forehead to the same spot.

“I know you,” he whispers, and it’s bewildered, knotted up with something like grief even if he doesn’t know _why_. “I _know_ you.”

She smiles at him, crooked, wry, and lifts a hand to her mouth. Kisses her fingertips, then presses them to where his cheek is, passing along the kiss. Bly can almost feel it, a phantom brush of lips against his cheekbone, but—

But she’s fading, and Bly tries desperately to reach _through_ the barrier, to grab her, and _can't_. In an instant she’s gone entirely, and Bly grits his teeth, digs his fingers into the metal, and has to take a long moment to breathe through the sheer sense of _loss_ that settles heavy and hot in his gut.

“CC-5052?” Gree asks from behind him, and Bly twitches, turns quickly. He hadn’t heard the other bunk come out, hadn’t noticed the movement of another person up, but Gree doesn’t look like he’s debating how best to march Bly down to the psych eval office, so he probably didn’t see Bly whispering to a reflection.

“Bly,” he says shortly, and he’s never found a name that fits right before, but—this one does. He woke up with it in his head, with the sound of it settled into his bones, and he’s keeping it. There's no other that will suit him.

Gree raises a brow, looking amused. “You don’t hesitate, do you?” he asks with good humor. When Bly frowns at him, he raises his hands in self-defense and says, “I'm just saying. Last night you didn’t even have a name, and you didn’t seem to want one. Now you’ve picked one out _and_ gotten a tattoo.”

Tattoo. Bly closes his eyes, and knows without having to reach up what Gree means. There's a streak of gold tattooed across his cheek, high up on the right side, and—

It’s her color. It’s the one he associates with her, though Bly couldn’t say why if his life depended on it. Gold and blue and brown, the sleek hum of a lightsaber igniting even if Bly shouldn’t have any idea what one sounds like.

(He got it on leave once, maybe. Staggered back to the cruiser with his head spinning and his face aching, drunk and gleeful with it, only to find her in the entranceway. And she’d looked at him, and he’d felt so bold, so high on everything, on life and near misses and cheap rotgut, that he’d told her he got it to show he was hers. And she’d smiled at him, small and soft, and laughed a little. Leaned up on her toes, tugging him down as his balance wavered, and kissed the mark so gently he couldn’t even feel it.

Or maybe that was just another dream, and he’d simply forgotten it until now. Bly can't even begin to tell.)

“I figured it was time,” he says, and it’s a lie, but that’s fine. He doesn’t need to tell Gree about the beautiful Jedi he’s seeing in his dreams. That will only get him mocked viciously.

Thankfully, Gree's the type not to worry too much if a vod tells him he’s fine, so he inclines his head, accepting that at face value. “Glad you did,” he says. “CT numbers are a mouthful.”

That was how Alpha-17 framed it, when he let the first few batches of commanders pick nicknames, Bly knows. He’d personally held out, but—Fox and Cody and Doom and pretty much all the rest had jumped on the idea, gotten themselves names and surpassed all of the trainers’ expectations for them. Bly hadn’t understood it, at first, but—

He does now, though he could quite say _why_.

Half-turning, he casts a look at where her reflection was, almost able to see her afterimage in the cold metal. Almost able to see those eyes, that smile, the way she pressed a second-hand kiss to his cheek.

That fist around his heart is back, and Bly breathes through it as best he can, tries to hold himself together. Nods to Gree, automatic, mechanical, and then leaves the bunkroom, headed for the mess. It’s early, and the halls are quiet as he passes other squads’ bunkrooms, only a few early risers already out. Colt and Havoc and Blitz are all sprawled out on the ground at one of the junctions, half on top of each other as they compare notes on a tactics class, and Bly gives them a polite nod, gets a smirk from Blitz in return and hides a grimace. They never go easy on the squads they get to train, which Bly supposes is one of the benefits of being from the first batch of clones created, and personally trained by Jango Fett on top of that.

They're not into hazing, at least, just torture in the name of training, so they let him pass without further comment, and Bly picks up his pace, not even sure he’ll go into the mess once he gets there, but it’s fine, it’s a destination—

A flash of blue catches his eye, and he spins towards it, takes a step back—

Collides with a familiar body for the second time in as many days, and this time they both hit the floor _hard._

“Heck, CC-5052,” Cody says, winded, and shoves at him. “If you're doing the Boxnov Three-Step in the hall, can you at least open your eyes? Other people walk here.”

“It’s _Bly_ ,” Bly snaps, but he hauls himself up, staggers a step, and then registers that they're alone in the hall. Pauses, and asks, “Where’s your shadow?”

Cody's face loses about four shades, and he freezes. His expression twists, and like Bly just asked him how his whole squad died, he ducks his head.

Cody's not one for showing emotion other than humor and vague bullying. Bly blinks down at him, then swallows and drops to one knee. He saw Cody and Rex just yesterday, and they’d both seemed perfectly fine. Rex is an aberrant clone, but—he’s just blond, that’s all, and he’s smart enough that it more than makes up for it in the trainers’ eyes. If the Kaminoans were going to decommission him, they already would have done it.

“Cody?” he asks, concerned, and hesitates. After a moment, he reaches out, lets himself grip Cody's shoulder, and Cody tips forward like Bly just cut his strings and buries his face in his hands.

“He’s _gone_ ,” he says, ragged. “He just—out of thin air. And the security cameras are all static, so no one can even _see_ it. But she took him. She just—touched him and he _vanished_.”

They're made for war, and they’ve lost a handful of brothers to training accidents, but this is—something different. Bly swallows, and the idea of a clone just up and vanishing from the middle of the facility is bewildering, _wrong_. He can't quite wrap his head around it. Shifts closer, letting Cody lean on him, and Cody takes the support without hesitation, gripping his knee with bruising fingers.

And then—

“Wait,” Bly says, and it feels like there's a rock sinking in his stomach, sending dread rising. “She?”

“A Twi’lek,” Cody says grimly, and lifts his head. For all his distress, his eyes are hard, and there's a desperate sort of determination on his face. “Rutian, with—”

“Brown eyes,” Bly finishes for him, quiet. Breathes in, and it’s _her_ , he knows it. “And a gold headwrap.”

Cody's eyes widen, then narrow. “You saw her too,” he says, grim.

Bly isn't entirely sure. He swallows, and—what if it was just a dream? What if he was just seeing things in the locker bank? What if it was him going crazy? Not all aberrant clones are visibly aberrant, after all.

But Cody saw her. She took Rex…somewhere.

“She’s a Jedi,” he says finally, and meets Cody's startled stare. “I—she’s a Jedi, and she’s somewhere on Metellos, I think.”

The ship is oddly new and sleek in contrast to everything else about Rex's new traveling companion, and the contrast is a little bewildering. Rex spends a few minutes sweeping the handful of small rooms and finding a strange amount of clutter for a Jedi who dresses like a vagrant hobo. There are lots of fancy touches he’s never seen on even the most ornate Jedi cruiser, either, and when he emerges from the small bedroom, complete with a very large traditional mattress instead of the foldaway bunks that are standard, he’s feeling entirely bemused.

“This is your ship?” he asks, approaching the front, where Jon is just inputting coordinates as the craft breaks atmosphere.

Jon grunts without looking up. “It is now,” he says.

Halfway down into the copilot’s seat, Rex freezes. He blinks, then turns his head to give Jon an incredulous look.

Glancing up, Jon raises a brow. “The old owner certainly doesn’t need it anymore,” he says mildly.

It takes Rex a long moment to formulate a response to that, and something in the back of his head wants to scream that it’s the most achingly _Anakin_ thing to say that he’s ever heard. A larger part is preoccupied looking for any blood stains on the decking or the pale upholstery, because he can guess _why_ the old owner doesn’t need a ship this fancy.

“You killed them?” he asks warily, after a minute.

“Yes,” Jon says simply. “He was a bounty hunter who specialized in children.”

Rex goes cold, and has to swallow hard. “Well. In that case,” he says, and grimaces. “Tell me you at least tossed him to a Sarlacc.”

The curve of Jon's mouth is a cold little thing, but oddly reassuring. “There weren’t any available, so I fed him to his own vornskrs.”

Brutal, but—Rex will take it. He breathes out, inclining his head, and glances at the coordinates Jon is just finishing with. They're nothing he recognizes, or even near anything he would recognize; the GAR didn’t leave the Republic much, and the Unknown Regions aren’t a place he ever spent a lot of time.

“Willing to tell me what’s on Ilum now?” he asks evenly.

The hum of the engines shifts, and the ship blurs forward into hyperspace as Jon sits back. for a moment, he simply stares out the viewscreen, perfectly still, but then he takes a breath and inclines his head.

“An old Jedi Temple,” he says. “You need to visit it.”

Rex doesn’t twitch, but it’s a near thing. “I'm _not_ Force-sensitive,” he protests. “I'm a clone, we can't be.”

Jon just shrugs. “Maybe you weren’t,” he says. “But your Force spirit decided to change you. That handprint lets you feel the Force.” He pauses for a moment, then glances sideways at Rex, and asks, “Whose clone?”

“Jango Fett,” Rex says without hesitation, because it’s not like it isn't obvious. Even Rex, with his blond hair, is a carbon copy of him, if slightly younger now.

Jon's eyes narrow faintly, but he looks Rex over. Doesn’t make any move, doesn’t seem ready to, but simply inclines his head and says, “A dangerous man.”

Rex grimaces, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees as he scrubs his hands over his face. “There are…millions of us,” he says, and his heart twists, thinking of all of his brothers. Thinking of Cody, of Echo and Fives and Jesse and Kix, all of them alive and untwisted, still whole. Chipped, created by the Sith, but—

He’s here now. He’s going to save them.

“Millions,” Jon repeats. “And these are the clone troopers you meant.”

“The Sith are behind it,” Rex tells him, lifting his head. Meets his eyes, nerves twisting his stomach into knots, and he _needs_ Jon to believe him even if it sounds outlandish. “They had the army of my _vode_ made, and they had chips implanted in them, to make them kill the Jedi when the Sith Lord gave the order. He’s—he took over the Senate, he’s the Supreme Chancellor—”

With a sound of alarm, Jon raises his hands. “Easy,” he says, cutting Rex off. “Just—one thing at a time. There was an Empire. In your time, the Sith won.”

“They were ruling the empire,” Rex says roughly, and doesn’t want to think about his years on the run, the Rebellion, the clones stripped back to plain white armor and numbers, the Jedi massacred. “They had the Jedi _slaughtered_ , and the Sith Lord took all the power—”

His heartbeat is too fast in his chest, his breath coming too quick, too shallow. He wants to leap up, to run, to pace, to do _something_ , because he’s back here all alone and he can't—

Callused hands catch his, pull them down, and Jon slides off his chair and onto his knees. He grips Rex's hands, then brings them up to his chest and says sharply, “Breathe with me.”

Rex startles, almost pulls back. But before he can, he feels—a touch, maybe. Like a ghostly hand against his own, or a heartbeat close enough that he can feel it. Someone breathing, maybe, right up against his back.

It’s been a long time since Rex last felt something like that.

Gritting his teeth, he ducks his head, tries to focus. Getting his breathing back under control should be simple, but it’s hard to think past the panic, the razor edge of complete despair that looms. He’s back in time, but—there's only one of him. Only him, and suddenly he _can_ save his brothers, can help them, but he doesn’t know _how_.

“Shh,” Jon says, barely a breath, and curls his fingers over Rex's, holds his hands still against his chest. “Your worry is a tangle, a knot around your lungs. Close your eyes. Think of those strands breaking away, one at a time, and uncoiling with the force of your breaths. Count your breaths as they do. Inhale for the count of eight, exhale for a count of eight.”

Rex curls his fingers against Jon's chest, wanting to protest, wanting to pull away. But at the same time, he _knows_ he’s panicking, knows he needs to get himself under control. And—

Eight seconds breathing in. Eight seconds breathing out. Rex focuses on that, closes his eyes. He can feel Jon matching him, the same slow pattern, careful and steady, and…it might be working.

Not instantly. Not magically. It takes what feels like a long time, sitting there, but Rex finds the pattern, finds his breaths deepening on their own. Feels Jon change his own rhythm to match, and the way his heart slows, and the tremble that wants to shake through him as the pure panic gradually slides away. It eases, and Rex can only feel relief. Normally he rides out his bad moments alone, tucked back into whatever dark corer he can find, but—this is a good alternative.

“Teaching me to meditate already?” he rasps, and Jon smiles faintly. He glances up, checking Rex's face, then sinks back on his heels and carefully lets go of his hands.

“Yes,” he says. “The start of it, at least. Panic attacks and Force abilities, even untrained, are…an unpleasant combination.”

Rex grimaces. He’s seen both Obi-Wan and Anakin loopy on painkillers to the point where they can't control their abilities, and it’s always the least fun time anyone’s ever had in a medical tent, which is probably saying something. “I couldn’t—” he starts, but Jon's raised eyebrow makes the words die in his throat.

“Thanks,” he offers instead, after a moment, because that seems like the safer alternative.

The flicker of Jon's amusement barely touches his face, but Rex can tell it’s there as he inclines his head. “You're welcome,” he says, and rises to his feet. Doesn’t sit back down in the pilot’s chair, but leaves it to the nav computer and instead makes his way back towards the wide open sweep of the main deck. It’s not a large ship, but there's certainly more room than a LAAT/i, and Rex follows cautiously as Jon ignores the chairs set along the wall and instead sinks down on the narrow rectangle of carpet, folding his legs underneath himself. It makes Rex roll his eyes a little, but he sinks down across from Jon, settling as best he can when there's not a lot of extra room. Their knees practically brush, but Jon doesn’t move away, just offers Rex his hands.

“To help you focus,” he says quietly, and Rex flicks a look from his face to his hands and keeps his own right where they are on his knees.

“I'm fine,” he says determinedly.

There's a long, long moment of silence before Jon inclines his head. He doesn’t protest, doesn’t try to argue, just says, “The Sith Lord is the Chancellor.”

Right. That’s the beginning. Or at least enough of one. Rex nods, and says, “He’s aiming to start a war. A civil war. Dooku will—”

“ _Master_ Dooku?” Jon interrupts, frowning, and—

There's a grim, sinking feeling in his stomach, but Rex forges on anyway. Says, flat, “He leads a confederacy of separatist planets from his position as apprentice to Lord Sidious. I can give you proof—”

But Jon is shaking his head, settling back. “I believe you,” he says quietly. “Nico hates him. He won't be surprised.”

“Nico?” Rex asks, confused.

“Master Nico Diath.” Jon studies his face, and then says, “You don’t know him, either.”

Ten thousand Jedi at the start of the war, and Rex managed to cross paths with a fair number of them, or at least hear about them. but he’s never heard of either Nico Diath or Jon Antilles, and—that likely means they died early on in the war. “No,” he answers, and doesn’t know how to say _you were probably dead by the time I reached a high enough rank to know your names_.

From the look on Jon's face—resigned and a little rueful, touched with tired humor—he hears the thought regardless. “I see. Dooku is the leader on that side?”

“He’s the one who was pulling most of the strings,” Rex confirms, and —the Separatists had their points, and their reasons for ceding, but a hell of a lot of them just killed indiscriminately, sacked whole worlds and left them in ruin. Those people Rex wouldn’t mind dragging to the chopping block himself.

“And then the Sith Lord was pulling his,” Jon says, grimly amused. Looks at Rex, too sharp and almost unnerving, and then away again, like he knows the effect his stare has.

He’s a Jedi, Rex thinks, maybe a touch sourly. He probably does.

“Your fellow clones,” Jon says, even as he rises to his feet. “Where are they?”

“Kamino,” Rex says, standing as well, and he can't help a frown. Can't help a thread of suspicion that feels like alarm, slicing through his veins. Stepping forward, after Jon, he grabs for his arm, wrenches him around before he can think better of it. “You can't—they were made on the Sith's orders, they're not willingly a part of this. You can't kill them—”

A hand grips Rex's shoulder, pulls. He stumbles forward, right into Jon, and—

Stops. Stands there, because it’s not a hug, but Jon is steady and still and warm, and Rex tightens his grip on his arm, can't help but lean into him. Feels, light, Jon's hand curl more loosely around his shoulder, easing back from a tight grab, but stay where it is.

“No one is going to kill them,” Jon promises quietly. “We’re Jedi. It isn't our way.”

Rex swallows. “I know,” he says, and he _does_. But—his last real memory of the Jedi is Mandalore, and Order 66, and then the Temple and the bodies of children on the ground.

His brothers died that day, and it wasn’t _justified_ , because they were just puppets, but he won't blame the Jedi for trying to defend themselves, either.

“What’s your name?” Jon asks, and—

The desperate, incredulous sound of amusement that breaks from Rex's throat is the closest to a real laugh he’s managed in _years_. But—he’s here on Jon's ship, telling him about Sith Lords taking over the galaxy, about _time travel_ and clone armies and Force spirits, and—Jon believed him. He knows that. But Jon also didn’t even know his _name_.

“You—isn't that something you’d ask _first_?” he demands.

Jon raises a brow at him, and the curl of his mouth is all quiet amusement. He doesn’t linger, but takes a half-step to the side, pulling the band from his short ponytail and sliding it into his sleeve. “I need to comm Nico,” he says. “He can deal with Dooku. And I know someone who can go to Kamino and look into the chips.”

As simple as that. Just like how he believed Rex earlier. Closing his eyes, Rex takes a long breath, scrubs his hand through his mud-caked hair, and says, “ _Di’kutla Jetii_. I'm Rex.”

This time, Jon doesn’t argue with the insult. Just tips his head, watching Rex with those pale eyes for a long moment, and then turns away.

“Fresher’s over there,” is all he says, and disappears back to the front to make his comm.

Rex gave up on trying to figure Jedi out a long time ago. He’s not about to give himself a headache trying it now.


	4. Chapter 4

Quinlan struggles up out of sleep like surfacing from deep water, clawing his way out of the thin blanket and tumbling down off the edge of the bed with a ragged sound. He hits on one knee, the floor beneath him gritty sand and cool stone, and hears quick footsteps in the dimness.

A moment later, a light washes over the room, and instantly the woman goes to her knees beside him, callused fingers closing around his elbow as she holds him upright.

“Easy, Master Jedi,” she says, and Quinlan considers jerking away, wants to throw himself back out into the town and look for Aayla, but—

“She’s gone,” Quinlan says, hoarse, and lets the woman haul him back up and onto the bed, collapsing there and only just managing to catch himself before he smacks into the wall. “I don’t—”

 _Don’t know what to do_ , he wants to say, except the words won't leave his mouth. He only just got Aayla back, only just found her again after her kriffing family hid her away, and now she’s disappeared. Now he has to tell Tholme _again_ that he lost Aayla, that she slipped right through his fingers.

“Your companion?” the woman asks with concern. “I didn’t see any other Jedi in the street, but—Cad Bane was there—”

“It wasn’t Bane,” Quinlan says, and closes his eyes for a moment, marshalling himself. Controlling himself, and it’s always harder for him than most Jedi, but—he’s still a Jedi.

When he opens his eyes, he at least feels less like he’s going to fall apart, even if his head aches just from sitting up. Taking a breath, he looks up into the woman’s lined face, her worry clear, and says, “Thank you.”

The woman’s smile is a little crooked. “You're very welcome, Master Jedi,” she says. “Your kind have a way of ending up here on Tatooine, don’t you?”

“You’ve met other Jedi?” Quinlan asks, a little surprised. He reaches up, feeling the lump on the back of his skull, and grimaces a little when his fingers come away tacky with blood. Tholme always tells him he has a hard head, but—clearly not hard enough, this time.

“Yes,” the woman says. “Master Qui-Gon Jinn, years ago now.” She smiles a little, wan. “He was very kind.”

Quinlan saw Obi-Wan through far too many years of dealing with the bastard to share her opinion, but he doesn’t try to argue. Qui-Gon _was_ kind. Just not to his padawan. But—

Maybe it’s the blow to the head that’s making him slow, or maybe the worry for Aayla. But finally, finally, the thoughts connect, and Quinlan blinks. He raises his head, looking right at the woman, and the memory of her leaning over him in the street comes back, that echoing, singing presence where he didn’t expect one, the edges of the Force bleeding through her in ways that shouldn’t be possible.

It’s subtle. Quinlan generally has a good sense of such things, because Kiffar are naturally sensitive to the Force, feel it in ways only the Korunnai otherwise do, and even he has a hard time catching it when he looks at her straight-on. Not a vast, overwhelming aura of power, the way Anakin has, but—something subtler, steadier, like gilt threads woven through an otherwise dark tapestry, only catching the light when it’s turned the right way.

“You’re the one,” he says, startled, and her eyes widen. Means _you're the one the Force picked to have a baby_ , but can't think of any good way to phrase that without insulting her, and settles instead on, “You’re Skywalker's mother.”

She reaches out, grabs for his hands like she can't help herself. “You know Anakin?” she asks, desperate. “You’ve seen him? Is he all right?”

Skin contact, and normally Quinlan would be able to contain visions that surge to the forefront, sparked by the press of her hands, but his head hurts and his shields are low, and before he can even start to jerk away he gets a flash, wrenching, gutting, of Qui-Gon Jinn against the desert, a little boy with golden hair. The woman, standing, watching them leave, and her certainty that she would never see either of them again. Her master, a Toydarian, smug and angry by turns, and the knowledge that she’d die like this, alone and left behind.

Kriff. Quinlan didn’t sign up for any of this. He gently, carefully tugs his fingers out of hers, pulling back, and says, “My best friend is the one training him. He’s still a padawan, and I think he’s singlehandedly responsible for all of Obi-Wan’s grey hairs, but he’s fine.”

The woman’s expression doesn’t quite crumple, but it twists, and she raises her hands to cover her face for just a moment. “Thank you,” she says, rough. “Thank you for telling me. I didn’t—I've never heard anything.”

Quinlan hesitates, frowning, but—seeing her like this makes him think of Aayla, a prisoner, not even aware that she was, and his own grief at the sight. Taking a breath, he slides off the bed to kneel in front of her, then reaches out, curling his hands over her forearms where fabric covers all traces of skin. “He’s never contacted you?” he asks, a little bewildered by that. “You're—”

“A slave,” the woman finishes, when he hesitates, and raises her head with a worn smile. There are no tear-tracks on her cheeks, but she looks…tired. “I told him not to look back. He listened to me, that’s all.”

He’s a teenager, distracted by his new life, but—his mother is a _slave_. And after all the help Qui-Gon supposedly got from this woman, after all the help _Queen Amidala_ got from her, the fact that she was just left on Tatooine to rot in slavery makes Quinlan's lungs ache with undirected rage. They all moved forward, everyone involved with the whole mess, and left Anakin's mother behind.

“I'm Jedi Master Quinlan Vos,” he says, and pulls away enough to clasp his hands and bow his head, because he can at least give her that kriffing much respect. It’s the least she’s owed, seeing as she was a big part in helping save the Queen of Naboo. The fact that the queen forgot about her has nothing to do with Quinlan. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

The woman pauses, like she’s startled, and then chuckles a little, watery but warm. “I don’t think Jedi are supposed to bow to a slave,” she says, but inclines her head to him. “I'm Shmi Skywalker. Pleased to meet you, Master Vos.”

“One of the good things about being a Jedi is we can offer respect where it’s earned, rather than where it’s required,” Quinlan says. It’s what Tholme always told him, but Quinlan maybe believes it more right now that he ever has before.

Shmi smiles crookedly. “Are all Jedi good with words?” she asks. “Master Jinn was the same way.”

Quinlan grimaces, but doesn’t answer. Qui-Gon was a diplomat, and a hell of a good one, but Quinlan saw Obi-Wan struggling for his approval too many times to think of him that fondly.

“You haven’t heard from _anyone_ about Anakin since he left?” he asks instead.

The resigned sort of humor on Shmi's face hurts more than anything. “No one comes to Tatooine, Master Vos. Not unless they're forced.”

Quinlan pauses, frowning. He needs to go after Aayla, needs to find her, because there’s _something_ wrong and he has no idea what. No idea what could have turned into some kind of—of ethereal _being_ , more Force and fire than physical form. She said _Kamino_ , and it’s not a planet Quinlan has ever heard of, but that doesn’t matter. He _will_ find her. But—

He looks at Shmi for a long moment, abandoned by her own son, left behind by the queen she helped save and everyone on board who owes her. Left a _slave_ , and if she were free Quinlan could maybe understand it, but she’s _not_. Even beyond her presence in the Force, light and lingering and soft, and the fact that if the stories Quinlan's heard are true, the Force picked _her_ to carry its child, there are a hell of a lot of people who owe Shmi Skywalker their freedom. A whole planet’s worth of people, even.

He’s not going to leave her here. He can't.

“People leave it, though,” he says grimly, and pushes carefully to his feet. Hi head throbs, definitely the after-effects of a concussion, but it’s bearable. Jedi learn how to work through pain. “I need to go back, look for clues.” She was the slave woman working in the stall beside where he and Aayla were staking out the other shop—he recognizes her voice. Which means that her master must own the shop, and Jedi don’t tend to carry a lot of credits, but Quinlan's not a traditional Jedi. He has enough shady contacts and quasi-legal avenues to get more than enough credits to buy one slave, as much as he’d rather just turn the owner upside down and shake him until he gives in and releases her.

But—

He pauses, curling his fingers into the bare sandstone wall, and watches Shmi rise to her feet, smoothing her skirts around her. She looks sad, tired, and Quinlan thinks of the calluses on her hands and wonders how long she’s been a slave. Too long, regardless of what the number is.

If Tatooine were part of the Republic, he could arrest every last slave owner here, and kill any who resisted freeing their captives. But it’s not, so Quinlan will have to play along with the rules the Hutts have put into place, as disgusting as it is.

“I can get you out of here,” he says abruptly, gruffly, and looks away from the way Shmi's eyes widen. “I have to find my former padawan before I can take you to Coruscant and Anakin, but I’ll get you there eventually, if you want.”

For a long, long moment, Shmi is perfectly still, perfectly silent. Then, finally, she takes a breath, and says, “There’s—an explosive chip, in my head. If I try to run, Watto will activate it—”

“I’ll deal with it,” Quinlan says firmly. “You don’t have to come with me. Either way, I’ll free you.”

“I’ll be allowed to see Ani?” Shmi asks after another moment, twisting her fingers into her skirts like a nervous tic. “Jedi don’t have families, do they?”

 _It would be easier if we didn’t,_ Quinlan thinks, maybe a little rueful, but pushes thoughts of his aunt out of mind. “Most Jedi are raised in the crèche,” he says with a shrug. “We can contact our birth families if we want to. No one really cares. The Temple’s not a prison. Just a religious order.”

Shmi smiles at him, amused, soft. “Thank you, Master Vos,” she says. “I would be honored to come with you.”

“Quinlan,” he corrects, and gives her a grin. “I have to say thanks for dragging me back here, don’t I? You didn’t have to help me in the street, but I'm glad you did.”

“I'm glad, too,” Shmi says softly. “Thank you.”

Quinlan looks away, uncomfortable with the look on her face. He doesn’t do well with gratitude. Especially when he can't be an asshole in return to brush it off. “I need to make arrangements,” he says. “I’ll be back in a bit. Pack up whatever you want to take.”

“All right.” Shmi takes a half-step back, watching him, and asks, “You’ll be all right?”

“Just fine,” Quinlan says. It’s not the first time he’s worked with a concussion. “You know where my cloak ended up?”

“It was covered in sand, so I left it by the door.” Shmi watches him move towards the front room, and then says, “Good luck, Quinlan.”

“It’s _some_ kind of luck,” Quinlan says, a little rueful, and leaves her to pack, grabbing his cloak and heading out into Tatooine’s blistering afternoon. There’s a wind picking up, sweeping sand across the street, and he grimaces, pulling his hood up and raising his comm.

After so many years spent as Tholme’s padawan, he still remembers the code for the Archives, better than almost any other code in the Temple, and it’s a little aggravating. Still, when he punches it in, there's only a brief pause before a familiar, aged voice answers, “Archives.”

“Master Nu,” Quinlan says. “This is Vos. I was hoping you could look something up for me.”

“Of course, Master Vos,” Jocasta Nu answers. “On assignment? Your signal is faint.”

“I'm on Tatooine,” Quinlan says with a grimace. “Aayla disappeared, but she mentioned a place called Kamino right before she vanished. Do you have any information on it?”

“Kamino,” Jocasta echoes thoughtfully. “One moment, please.”

Quinlan lets her be, making the turn towards the shops where Aayla vanished. The crowd has abated in the afternoon heat, and there’s no sign of anything out of place except a smear of blood on the stone from where Quinlan's head landed, and he settles back against the wall with a frown, folding his arms—

The sleeves of his robe pull up, just slightly, and out of the gloom of Shmi's house, something catches the light.

Quinlan freezes, startled, and stares down at the bright blue marks curling up his arms. They're wide, the same azure as the fire that surrounded Aayla, and when he touches them, the skin beneath is slick like a burn scar, not something that will come off with scrubbing. They don’t _feel_ like burns, but—that’s what they are. Not inert burns, either; they hum with the power of the Force, a wilder, more aggressive kind of Force than Quinlan has ever felt before. It’s like that same Force is leaking into him, sliding in through the burns, and he presses his fingers against them, bewildered.

Whatever has Aayla is strong enough to physically mark people, to change their connection to the Force itself. It’s not something Quinlan even thought was possible, but the proof is seared right into his skin, entirely undeniable.

“Master Vos?” Jocasta says, startling Quinlan out of his thoughts, and he automatically raises his comm again, tugging his sleeve down to hide the marks.

“I'm here,” he answers. “Did you find anything?”

“There's no planet by that name listed anywhere in the Archives,” Jocasta says. “Are you sure you heard her right?”

Quinlan is absolutely, perfectly certain. It’s not something he would mishear. But—the Jedi Archives are one of the most comprehensive collections of knowledge in the galaxy. If the planet isn't listed there, either it’s far beyond the bounds of known space, or it doesn’t exist.

“Thanks, Master Nu,” Quinlan says after a long moment. “Would you keep looking for any mention? Just in case it’s past the Unknown Regions or something.”

There's a long pause, like Jocasta is deciding whether or not to be offended. “Of course,” she says finally. “If Aayla is missing, it’s the least I can do. Have you informed Tholme yet?”

Quinlan grimaces. “He’s on assignment,” he says. “If I haven’t found her by the time he’s done, I’ll comm him.”

“All right. Be safe, Quinlan.”

“Thanks, Master Nu.” Quinlan closes the channel, then scrubs an irritated hand through his dreadlocks, takes a breath, and sends a message to a contact who’s entirely too familiar with all the weird edges and hidden part of known space. If she can't tell him anything, he’ll accept that the planet doesn’t exist, but until then—

Until then, he has a slave owner to shake down and a woman to free. Quinlan rolls his neck, pastes on his most intimidating smirk, and goes to see a Toydarian about a lady he really, really shouldn’t have hung on to like some kind of prize.

Between the Force healing and whatever his spirit did to him when she threw him back in time, Rex falls asleep before they even reach the Metellos-Illum hyperspace route, collapsed on the overly-soft bed in the sleeping quarters with his boots still on.

Jon stands in the doorway for a long moment, watching him. His expression is twisted up in something like fear, and the sense of regret around him burns like bile. He’s clearly conflicted, angry and hurting, and Jon wants to drag him into meditation, help him soothe the rough edges of his mind. It’s an instinct with other Jedi, because the thorns of his mind prickle across Jon's consciousness uncomfortably, make his skin crawl.

He knows control. Dark Woman made sure he did. But at the same time, she also made his senses sharper, his awareness harsher. He feels everything, even when he would much rather not, and as useful as it is on missions and undercover, it the rest of his time it just makes him want to escape from his own skin.

Careful, perfectly silent, Jon steps into the room. Rex doesn’t stir, doesn’t so much as twitch, and Jon kneels down at the foot of the bed, laying a hand on one of his boots. When there's no reaction, he gently unlaces it, eases it open and slides it off, then turns to the other one. When they're both off, he rises, then finds a spare blanket in a closet and tosses it over Rex's still form, because the ship’s systems can only do so much to ward off the chill, and then retreats again, closing the cabin door behind him.

It’s strange, having another mind on the ship with him. Jon is used to being alone, to traveling by himself no matter what. Even when he meets the others on rare occasions, they never linger long. Dark Woman doesn’t, either, the handful of times she’s hunted him down to give him a task, and the feeling of another presence so close is…unsettling.

With a grimace, Jon drags a hand through his hair, then ties it back again. Part of him wants to retrieve his robe as well, pull the hood up and hide his face, but he restrains the urge; Nico knows his face, and he won't be impressed by Jon's attempts at hiding. Especially over the comm.

Even so, he can't help feeling exposed when he sinks into the pilot’s chair, trying not to slouch. Breathes in, grimaces at his own hesitation, and then punches in Nico's comm code. They try to only contact each other in emergencies, to stay apart as much as possible, but—

This likely counts as an emergency. A Sith Lord in control of the Republic was never going to be anything else.

It still takes Nico a long, long stretch of minutes to answer. Long enough that Jon almost thinks he won't, and he’s already considering potential messages to Knol and Fay when there's finally a hum. Nico's glowing blue figure rises from the projector, swampy-looking trees looming around him, and every last hair on his mustache looks _deeply_ unimpressed.

“Antilles,” he says. “In need of assistance so soon?”

“ _Master_ ,” a voice says, and the projector wobbles.

Jon can't help the faint pull of a smile. “Diath,” he says. “And little Diath.”

“Hello, Master Antilles,” Tae says, and it sounds like he’s only just holding himself back from laughing.

Nico sighs, put-upon and weary. “I take it this is not a social call?” he asks pointedly, and then pauses. “I was under the impression you were headed to Dagobah, given your last encounter with An’ya.”

It takes effort not to flinch, and Jon ducks his head before he can stop himself, wishing for his hood. “I did,” he says, quiet. “But something found me there.”

“Something,” Nico repeats, voice just a little sharp. “A threat? Are you injured?”

Jon shakes his head. “A Jedi who had become something else after her death,” he says. “She brought me a warning.”

It’s close enough to the truth, without having to explain everything. Time travel sounds rather unbelievable to most people, Jon is sure. And Rex counts as a warning, likely.

“A warning of what?” Nico asks, frowning.

“The Supreme Chancellor is a Sith Lord,” Jon says quietly, “hiding himself from the Jedi. And he’s taken an apprentice. Dooku. They aim to fracture the Republic and start a war.”

Nico's eyes widen, then narrow sharply, and he draws himself up to his full height. “Dooku,” he repeats darkly. “No longer content ruling from his ancestral palace, I assume. I've heard he’s become quite the public speaker these last few months. Preaching the downfall of the Republic, even.”

Jon hadn’t heard that, but then, he isn't nearly as preoccupied with keeping an eye on the former Jedi as Nico is. The confirmation is helpful, though, and he inclines his head, then says, “There’s more.”

“ _More_?” Nico echoes, disbelieving. “More than a Sith Lord in charge of the Senate? Antilles—”

“They're building an army,” Jon interrupts. “For the Republic to use, but it’s a trap. For the Jedi. Cloned men, from Kamino, forced to serve the Sith against their will. Because of chips in their heads.”

Nico's expression slides into something truly _arctic_. “I would say,” he offers after a long moment, “that the Republic would never use such means, but I have seen it turn a blind eye to slavery _far_ too many times to believe that.”

Jon nods. He’s seen the same thing; it’s all too common in the Outer Rim, and the Core benefits from the trade, so very few people are inclined to stop it. “I was going to ask Fay to go,” he says quietly. “If anyone has the control and the knowledge to destroy a whole army’s worth of control chips—”

“Fay is most certainly the one,” Nico agrees with a breath. He’s still scowling, though. “I would prefer to see to it myself—”

“You're the one who knows Dooku best,” Jon reminds him. “Send Knol with Fay, if you're worried.”

“Only a fool would worry about Fay,” Nico retorts. He eyes Jon for a long moment, and then says, “And you? I assume the spirit showed you a task of your own.”

Jon doesn’t look back at the closed cabin door. “I'm going to Ilum,” he says. “The pull is…insistent.”

Nico's exhale is heavy, but he doesn’t try to argue. “There are legends of things on Ilum that the Sith could never hope to understand,” he says after a pause. “But mind yourself, Antilles, and be wary of who you trust. There is a darkness that has been clouding the Force of late. I do not like it.”

Jon nods. “Watch yourself, too,” he returns. “Dooku is hardly a weak man, especially if he’s been learning from a Sith. Tae can only rescue you so many times.”

Nico scoffs. “Tae will not be accompanying me,” he says, and behind the projector Tae makes a sound of protest. Nico simply raises a brow, unimpressed, and says, “Nephew, I know quite well what a bastard son of a snake Dooku is. Fay and Knol will have far less of an ability to identify their enemies on an unfamiliar world. You will be accompanying them to Kamino.”

“You know where it is?” Jon asks with a frown, because he’s never heard it mentioned before.

With a grimace, Nico inclines his head. “The Kaminoans are cloners of great renown,” he says. “And they are frequently contracted for work among those I take umbrage with.”

“You mean the slavers and gangster lords you harass to death,” Jon says, dust-dry.

Nico waves that off without hesitation, but doesn’t bother to contest the point. “Kamino lies beyond the Rishi Maze,” he says. “It should be simple to find if Knol and Fay know where to look.”

“You're sure you don’t want me to come?” Tae asks, concerned. “You said that Dooku is good at mental manipulation—”

“You being a telepath will not make him any less skilled,” Nico says, not un-gently. “Knol will be willing to serve as your anchor for the duration of the mission, but you will do far more good on Kamino than with me. I will contact them and arrange for one of them to come retrieve you immediately.”

“Yes, Master,” Tae says, though he doesn’t sound entirely happy about it.

Inclining his head in thanks, Nico turns his gaze back to Jon. “Antilles, when your task is complete on Ilum, contact me again.”

“I will,” Jon says, soft. “You’ll reach out to Fay and Knol?”

“Of course—”

A flicker of blue catches Jon's eye, and he lunges forward, cutting off the transmission and spinning to his feet in one smooth movement, hand braced on the hilt of his lightsaber.

Burning with the same azure light as the handprint left on Rex's chest, a Twi’lek woman with a golden headwrap tilts her head as she looks him over, the Force curled around her like an ocean. Jon stares for a long moment, then carefully rises, letting go of his lightsaber and stepping back. Gathering himself, he bows low, and says, “Lady Aayla.”

Whatever Aayla once was, she’s not a Jedi now. She _is_ the Force, in a way that makes Jon think of Dagobah, or Odessen, or the Great Temple of Yavin IV. A nexus of it, bound up in a frail mortal body that can't contain the might. She’s beautiful, bewildering, but also deeply unsettling, and Jon can't quite bring himself to look at her straight-on.

“ ** _Jedi Master Jon Antilles_** ,” she says, and Jon closes his eyes against the force of her voice, almost enough to make him sway. There's a pause, careful, and then a step, and hot hand curves around Jon's cheek. He glances up, even though it aches somewhere deep in his bones, to meet her eyes, and she smiles sadly at him. “ ** _You died so quickly last time. The Dark Side clouded everything, and it left you with nothing_**.”

“I’ll be prepared this time,” Jon says quietly. “It won't happen again, my lady.”

Aayla is silent for another stretch of seconds, the rippling blue glow of her eddying through the ship. “ ** _Protect him_** ,” she finally says. “ ** _I may not always reach him in time, but Rex is the hinge of destiny. He must survive_**.”

Jon breathes in, closes his eyes. He can feel that, too. Could from the very first moment, kneeling over Rex with no idea who he was or where he’d come from. Nothing except a sharp, ringing certainty that he needed to live no matter what.

“I will,” he says, and it’s an oath even if it’s two simple words.

Aayla must feel that, because she smiles. Reaching out, she brushes her fingertips over his heart, and says, “ ** _There is Darkness in you._** ”

“There always has been,” Jon says, the raw and unvarnished truth. Dark Woman’s training encourages darkness even as it builds light, and Jon didn’t escape unscathed. Or maybe he was always Dark, and she simply didn’t try to carve it out of his soul. He’s never quite been certain.

Aayla meets his eyes, unwavering. “ ** _Do good, and it won't matter,_** ” she says, and then, with a ripple of blue light and azure fire, she’s gone.

The point where her fingertips touched him is hot. Jon tugs at the neck of his robes, pulling fabric aside until he can see skin, and is entirely unsurprised to find a streak of that same blue painted over his heart.


	5. Chapter 5

“We can't _do this_ ,” Bly breathes, completely horrified.

“What _we_ ,” Cody says flatly, adjusting his armor. His _stolen_ armor, and if his heartbeat is just a little too fast in his veins, well. No one needs to know. And Bly is too busy working himself into a panic attack over what they're about to do to notice, regardless. “I'm taking a ship—”

“ _Stealing_ , you're _stealing_ a ship, and if you get us caught we’re going to be _decommissioned_ —”

Probably, Cody acknowledges grimly, if only to himself. But—

Rex is gone. Rex was _taken_. Cody has other friends, and other clones he cares for, but Rex is quiet and a little awkward, too prone to following orders just because they come from a superior. Cody's been looking after him since the first time they met in training, and like hell Cody's going to let someone just snatch him out of the cloning facility and _get away with it_.

“I’ll bring it back,” Cody says, dogged, even though he hasn’t quite worked that part out yet. He will eventually. Probably. Maybe he can appeal to Jango directly, even if Jango rarely interacts with his clones.

Firmly, Cody sets aside the thought of later and focuses on what’s important. He needs to find the woman who took Rex. The _Jedi_ who took Rex. And if she’s on Metellos, then that’s where he needs to go. Bly's not going to stop him.

“This is _stupid_ ,” Bly says, furious, but Cody can see that it’s not all aimed at him. Bly scrubs roughly at his cheek with one hand, closes his eyes, and then carefully fits his fingers over the three dots of blue marching up his jaw. A deep breath, and then he opens his eyes, looks right at Cody, and says, “You're a mediocre pilot at _best_. Like hell I'm letting you pick the ship.”

Cody grins at him, wolfish, and reaches out to clap him on the shoulder. “Sure, vod. Whatever makes you rest easier,” he says, and tips his head at the hangar below them. It’s dark, only a few pools of light illuminating the landing bay. After all, it’s not like Kamino has to worry about many visitors. Or many departures, for that matter. “Well?”

Bly grimaces, but he looks out over the bay, assessing their options. “Something fast,” he says. “I don’t know how long she’ll be there, or if that’s the only place she goes when she’s not here, but…”

Better safe than sorry. Cody curls his fingers tighter around the grip of his blaster, forces himself to breathe and not dwell on that image of the hallway, Rex standing there as some kind of—of Jedi _spirit_ or something grabbed him and dragged him away. “She’d better have taken Rex there,” he says grimly. “For her sake.”

Bly gives him a look that’s almost hostile, but after a second he turns away again, focusing on the ships. “There,” he says, pointing towards a cruiser sitting near the entrance to the hangar. “That’s our best chance short of stealing _Slave I_.”

Cody's reckless, but he’s not _that_ reckless. He grimaces, sliding his helmet on, and it’s sized for one of their instructors, a Mandalorian who’s a little bit shorter and a little bit bulkier, but—it will do for now. “What’s this _our_? I'm going after Rex, and you're going to stay here and cover for me.”

“Get karked,” Bly returns without missing a beat. “If she took Rex, she has a reason, and I'm not going to let you—”

“What reason could she possibly have?” Cody snarls, only just managing to keep his voice low enough that people in the hall won't hear him. “She _took him_ , and if he doesn’t come back they're going to think he _deserted_!”

Clones don’t desert. They're decommissioned before they can, or hunted down. Cody's never heard the whole story, but he’s pretty sure what whoever commissioned them for the Republic wants them to be a complete secret, and identical men who are genetically engineered to be perfect soldiers running around the known galaxy won't do much for secrecy.

Cody should probably care more than he does. He’s Alpha-17’s favorite, one of the best in his class, fast-tracked for service to a High General, and those are all things to be proud of. That’s the best a clone can hope for, the best possible outcome of training, and Jango himself has approved of his progress. But—

Rex is his best friend, and Cody had to watch him be snatched out of existence by a glowing blue force that none of the security cameras caught, that no one but Bly has seen, and he _can't_ just sit back and let that happen.

Bly doesn’t move for a long moment after his outburst. Then, slow, he takes a breath and turns his head, the three dots of blue along his jaw almost glowing in the low light. “If you leave without me, I’ll tell the long-necks exactly where you're going,” he says grimly, and Cody's breath knots in his throat, a tight tangle of betrayal. He stares at Bly, disbelieving, and—

“Rex is _our vod_ ,” he says, and tries not to let his fury rise into an overwhelming thing.

Giving him an impatient look, Bly puts a hand on the railing, then vaults the edge of the platform and drops to the ground, so lightly he barely makes a sound.

Given that he tripped over his own feat in Tactics yesterday and almost took out their instructor, that’s a suspiciously graceful move. Cody frowns, watching him, but he _knows_ it’s Bly. There aren’t any brothers who would try to impersonate one another in the long-term; it’s practically taboo. And Bly's the same uptight bastard he’s always been, except for how he’s plotting to steal a ship and run for Metellos with Cody.

“Get moving,” Bly snaps, and Cody growls low in his throat but follows, leaping down and stalking after Bly. He tries to walk like their trainers, tries to move like he absolutely has business here in the hangar with all the lights dark and can't be bothered to pause and talk, and once he catches up Bly falls back, marching obediently behind him like he’s a student going out for a test flight. There's no one in the bay to see, but Cody doesn’t let himself falter, keeps moving right up the ramp of the ship.

The armor isn't the only thing Cody managed to steal. He scans the ID card he lifted from a different trainer, and watches the door slide open and the ramp descend with a breath that’s pure relief.

Bly swallows audibly, closes his eyes. His fists clench for a moment, then open, and he raises his chin. “Last chance to turn back,” he says almost inaudibly.

“Ha,” Cody says shortly, and marches up the ramp.

Clones don’t desert. They're almost always caught before they do, or they time it for training trips to other planets in the system and run then. None of them just…walk away without warning. And in light of that, maybe it’s entirely unsurprising that no one even thinks to look at them twice, a Mandalorian in ill-fitting armor and a clone cadet vanishing into a ship that opens readily for them. There’s nothing remarkable, nothing untoward.

Just Rex out there somewhere, snatched by a Jedi spirit lady, and a whole galaxy that Cody's going to turn upside down until he finds his vod.

For all his ego, Bly's one of the best pilots in their course, so Cody gives him the pilot’s seat without argument, settling into the other chair, then pulling off his helmet and starting to enter the codes that will get them out of Kamino’s airspace. All the systems will register that Bric is taking the ship, and Cody might feel remorse forgetting the man in trouble, but—he’s an ass, and he always calls Rex defective, just because his hair’s a different color. Some of the clones with blue eyes get the same treatment, and it’s never sat well with Cody. Getting him in trouble isn't _nearly_ as distressing as it could be.

“We got clearance,” he reports, as soon as the all-clear comes in. “You know the hyperspace coordinates?”

“I did look it up before we started,” Bly says, and that tone is all _unlike some people_ , sharp and peeved. Cody very carefully restrains the urge to hit him, more because the engines are rumbling to life than because he’s feeling any sort of mercy.

“Good,” he says shortly, because he can be an adult when the situation requires it. “It’s a straight shot to the nearest hyperlane through Hutt space—”

“I _know_ , Cody,” Bly says, and they lift off, out of the hangar in an instant and soaring skyward. There’s no reaction from the comm, no sudden alert that they're about to be shot down, just an unnerving sort of silence, and Cody grits his teeth, heart pounding high up in his throat as they break atmosphere and emerge into the darkness of space.

Slow, steady, Bly breathes out, and eases his grip just a little on the yoke. “Let me know as soon as we’re a safe distance for the jump,” he says, and Cody flicks a glance at him, at the burn of those blue tattoos along his jaw. Nods, short, and checks the nav systems. They’re slow to come up, and he frowns a little, tapping the edge of the screen lightly.

Whatever wire he jolts must be enough, because with a flicker, the readings steady. “Thirty seconds,” Cody says, and Bly starts inputting the coordinates. As they pass two of Kamino’s moons, the hyperdrive hums to life beneath them, and there's a low, smooth shift. The ship leaps into hyperspace, stars blurring, and they leave Kamino far behind them in an instant.

For a moment, Cody can't quite comprehend the fact that they made it. They got off Kamino. They're _gone_. He eyes the nav system like it’s about to show Kamino approaching, some kind of singularity slingshotting them right back to the facilities, but—

There's nothing. Just the glow of hyperspace, the hum of the ship around them, the sound of Bly breathing next to him.

“Karking hells,” Bly says, sounding stunned. He swallows, apparently coming to terms with the same thing as Cody, and then slumps forward, burying his face in his hands. “Karking, Sithing _hells_.”

“Watch it, or I’ll wash your mouth out with coolant,” Cody threatens, though he doesn’t quite mean it. He takes a breath, casts another glance at Bly, and then scrubs a hand through his hair, not quite sure what to do now. It’s going to be at least a week to Metellos from here, and then—then they're going to have to search a Core planet without raising any alarms, without getting themselves found, without losing whatever Jedi spirit is leading them onward.

“So what’s her name?” he asks after several long moment of silence.

Bly doesn’t even look up. “I don’t know,” he says. “I dreamed about her. I keep—she was in a reflection, and she told me where she was. I—she knows _me_ , too.”

Something cold trickles down Cody's spine, and he watches Bly with concern, not liking the sound of that. They were made for the Jedi, but—that’s strange. That’s not a battle plan or a frontal assault or any sort of thing covered by their classes. Just—oddness, and particularly in her choice of targets. Bly and Rex don’t have much of anything in common beyond their genetics.

What if Bly is next? What if she’s going to appear and snatch him out of existence any moment?

“Bly,” he starts, worried despite himself—

The nav computer flickers, flickers, _fades_ in a wash of glowing blue. At the same moment, the hyperdrive whines, high and ear-splitting, and the whole ship jolts so hard that Cody's thrown right out of his seat. He slams shoulder-first into Bly's with a shout, and Bly grabs his arm to hold him up free hand flying over the controls, but they're all dead.

With another high-pitched whine, the ship jolts, then abruptly drops out of hyperspace, regular space reappearing with a wrenching jolt. Cody grabs the edge of the console, levering himself to his feet with panic beating a hard, fast tattoo in his throat, and he slams a fist against the panel. A spark of blue crawls across the screen, but it flickers out a moment later, and—

“Kriff,” Bly breathes, eyes wide as he sinks back in his chair. He runs his hand across the panel, flipping switches, hitting buttons, but there’s no response from the engines. He takes a breath that shakes, and manages, “The—the life support. Can you—?”

Cody leans over to check it, and the sight of that, at least, still glowing is a relief like he’s never felt. “Operational,” he says. “We have enough air for…maybe forty-eight ours. Optimistically.”

“Distress beacon isn't working,” Bly observes, still that stunned-quiet tone that means things aren’t quite sinking in. “We were only in hyperspace for a few minutes, but…”

But that’s long enough to put them far away from Kamino, and this isn't space that’s traveled by anyone. They're dead in the middle of empty space, with no beacon, two days of air, and no chance that anyone is going to come looking for them.

Cody closes his eyes for a long, long moment, then opens them.

Outside the viewscreen, there's a flash of blinding blue, the figure of a Twi’lek woman, or maybe a nebula being born. But she’s gone before Cody can even be sure he saw her, and then they're all alone in a field of stars.

The ship is still in hyperspace when Rex staggers out of the shower too many hours later, head buzzing and whole body stiff and sore. His shoulder is fine, the blaster wound barely a scar now, but every muscle feels keen on reminding him just how many hills he rolled down and rocks he collided with.

The fresher does wonders for his outlook on life, though. As does the set of clothes that appeared on the fresher counter while he was enjoying the sonics. They're Jedi robes, the same strangely dark brown fabric as before, carefully patched, but these ones have rather less mud smeared into them, and Rex hasn’t slept hard in them, so they're practically new. It’s mildly unnerving to be wearing Jedi robes, but—

There are so many karking other things going on right now that this barely manages to register.

Jon isn't in the pilot’s seat, but kneeling on the floor again, eyes closed, hands on his knees. Rex eyes him for a long moment, wondering if he should copy him, but his knees ache just looking at the man. Determinedly, he takes a seat in one of the overstuffed chairs, and lets out a quiet breath of relief at sinking into the softness.

They're still in hyperspace, and it’s been at least sixteen hours. From what Rex saw of the coordinates when they lifted off, Dagobah was already deep in the Outer Rim, at the far edges of the known galaxy. Wherever they’re going, it’s far beyond anywhere Rex has ever managed to visit.

“Ilum isn't that deep in the Unknown Regions,” Jon says without opening his eyes. “But the hyperspace route there is long and winding. The Jedi who established it didn’t want to be tracked to Ilum by anyone, regardless of how peaceful the galaxy seemed.”

Jedi and mind-reading, Rex thinks, resigned. He’d forgotten about that part. Anakin never managed to do it often—he didn’t have the patience—but Obi-Wan had a habit of responding to feelings or thoughts as often as he did to words. It always spooked the shinies. Rex hadn’t thought he was at the point where it could still spook him, but—apparently the years in between have made the quirk something unfamiliar.

“Why’d the Jedi stake out a place in the Unknown Regions?” he asks, watching Jon's face. It’s perfectly calm, perfectly at peace, and Rex can't help but think of Ahsoka, the war that’s coming, the lines it carved into every Jedi he ever met. It hasn’t happened yet, but he can feel it looming like a tidal wave about to break, and he _hates_ it.

“There have always been Jedi in the Unknown Regions,” Jon answers, like it should be self-evident. When Rex blinks at him, because that’s definitely news where he’s concerned, Jon snorts softly, and says, “The first Jedi Temple is in the Unknown Regions. Ahch-To is the birthplace of the Jedi Order as you know it.”

 _As_ _you know it_ , rather than _as we know it_. Rex frowns, weighing that for a moment, remembering how Jon said he hadn’t been back to any of the Temples in years, and then says, “What, you're so different than all the other Jedi?”

Jon hesitates, and his eyes slowly slide open. There’s something tired in them, dark and quiet, and he breathes out. “My Master is a powerful Jedi, and a great scholar,” he says softly. “She has great respect for the Council and their views, but the traditions of the Order are far older than some people would care to remember. I was raised to follow older tenants than most Jedi.”

“Going against the Order and calling it respecting history?” Rex asks cynically, and—it’s not like Krell, because Krell was a Dark Jedi who aimed to become a Sith, but it still puts the hairs on the back of Rex's neck up.

Anakin thought he was in the right when he turned against the Order, too.

But Jon immediately shakes his head, turning his hands palm-up on his knees. “No,” he says. “The Order’s laws are my laws. I'm no Grey Jedi. But there are…ways the Order has been handicapped, and I try to avoid those bonds.” His mouth curves, rueful. “Unsuccessfully, often.”

Rex pauses, turning that over, trying to feel out what Jon isn't saying. “The Senate,” he translates after a moment. “You're avoiding the Senate.”

And…maybe that’s not a wholly unpleasant idea, given what Rex saw the Senate become. Given what he saw them _do_ , and all the powers they signed over to Palpatine without hesitation. They declared Palpatine _emperor_ , and the whole galaxy followed right along with them.

The whole war was meant to end in the Jedi's destruction and Palpatine’s appointment as emperor. The Senate played right into his hands. But—Rex can't help but imagine what would have happened if there had been more Jedi standing neutral the way Jon apparently tries to. At the very least, there might have been more Jedi left in the aftermath than just Quinlan karking Vos.

“I didn’t realize that there were Jedi like that,” he manages after a moment. “Who disagreed with the Senate.”

Jon inclines his head. “The ties have gotten tighter, over the centuries,” he says. “The Jedi aren’t meant to serve the Senate; we serve the Force. The loss of that means we’ve lost _everything_.”

The words are low, calm, but there's an edge of fervency that cuts through them, a quiet belief that resonates. Rex stares at Jon for a long moment, wanting the respond but not sure how to. Wanting to say _something_ , but all he can think of is _I don’t understand_.

“It means that much to you?” he manages finally, and catches the edge of Jon's crooked smile.

Slowly, deliberately, Jon raises his hands, offering them up to Rex. “You're Force-sensitive, even if you haven’t been trained,” he says. “Let me show you.”

 _But I'm not_ , Rex wants to say. _I'm not a Jedi, I'm not Force-sensitive, no matter what you want from me I'm not going to be able to manage it_ —

“Rex,” Jon says, soft. His gaze hasn’t wavered, and he still has his hands outstretched. “It I'm wrong, nothing will happen. All you’ll feel is me touching you. But wouldn’t you like to know?”

Rex closes his eyes, remembering the feel of Dagobah, the hum of it beneath his feet. The overwhelming _sense_ of it, just beyond sight and sound and feel. He’s never felt anything like that before, doesn’t have words for any part of it. Wants them, but at the same time, he doesn’t.

He’s not a Jedi. A Jedi would know what to do, wouldn’t feel fear, wouldn’t feel despair. Rex is just a clone, and he’s weak, and he’s never managed to save anyone.

“What if that _is_ all I feel?” he asks, and tries to pretend that his voice doesn’t crack just a little.

Jon doesn’t laugh at him, doesn’t smile, doesn’t offer reassurances. He just meets Rex's eyes, unflinching, and says, “Then you’ll still be the man who survived the rise of a Sith and his empire.”

“I _ran_ ,” Rex says, and the words feel torn loose from somewhere deep inside of him. “All of my brothers were suffering, and they were _brainwashed_ , and I picked up and left them.”

Jon is silent for a moment, like he’s weighing that, and something in Rex crawls with shame. This is a Jedi. The Jedi never run. They're the ones making last stands, giving themselves for a greater cause. This same man probably died doing the same, the first time around. Some mission somewhere with impossible odds and too many enemies, and now he knows that Rex abandoned every last member of the GAR, of Torrent, of the Order. He and Ahsoka had parted ways, and Rex tried to help but he was just chasing rumors—

“And here you are,” Jon says, quiet. He presses the very tips of his fingers to Rex's fisted hands, looking up to meet his eyes. “If you had stood and been killed when the Republic fell, who would Aayla have sent back? Who would be left to save them now?”

Rex swallows, unable to find words. His eyes burn, and he ducks his head, burying his face in his hands. Shudders, and feels Jon's hand settle on his shoulder, not gripping, just there. A reminder of another presence that sees him, knows him, calls him by name, and it’s been so long since Rex had anything of the sort. Years, and he just—

Aayla picked him. She saw him, and took the chance, and if he’d been killed on a suicide mission trying to shoot the new emperor in the head, she wouldn’t have been able to.

It’s not much, but somehow it means everything, hearing that.

“Thank you,” he says, ragged, and Jon inclines his head, then lets go. He sits back on his heels for a moment, then rises to his feet in a smooth shift.

“Another time, perhaps,” he says, and turns—

Alarm flares, bleeding towards panic, and Rex lunges out of his chair, grabs Jon by the arm. He just means to stop him, to hold him up, but instantly Jon flinches violently, ducks like Rex is about to haul him back towards him and stab him in the throat. There's no attempt to get away, and he doesn’t swing at Rex, doesn’t try for violence, just—freezes. Goes still in Rex's grip, face turned away, shoulders stiff and bowed, and waits.

Rex lets go like he’s been burned. “Sorry,” he says, taking two long steps back. “Sorry, I just—I was going to say, I’ll try. If the offer is still open.”

“Of course,” Jon says, rough, but he still doesn’t turn. Stays where he is for a long, long moment, and then raises his head, straightens up. “Are you comfortable here?”

“Are you?” Rex asks, watching him.

There's a pause, and then a breath. Finally, Jon turns to face him, and he’s a shade paler than he should be, but he doesn’t waver when he says, “Of course.”

Rex doesn’t push or question. Just nods, then takes another step back, sinking down and leaving Jon space to sit as close or as far away as he wants. For a long moment, Jon just watches him, but then he takes a breath, slides down on his knees, and asks, “Have you ever meditated before?”

“Does blaster practice count?” Rex asks dubiously, but when Jon offers his hands again, Rex slides his own into them. Jon's hands have the same calluses that Anakin and Obi-Wan’s used to, that Ahsoka gained. It’s…familiar. Rex almost wishes it weren’t.

“Potentially,” Jon says, and when Rex blinks, he inclines his head. “Some Jedi meditate best when moving. It’s a state of mental clarity, not a formula with set variables.”

“Oh.” Rex frowns, trying to remember if he’s ever actually heard a Jedi describe meditation. For Ahsoka and Anakin, it was something to be endured. For Obi-Wan, it was a retreat from the real world after bad days, but—knowing that doesn’t mean that Rex knows anything else. “But most Jedi meditate like you do.”

“It varies,” Jon says, and takes a breath. “I focus outward. Some Jedi focus inward. Some focus on the Force flow. Some count breaths. Everyone is unique.”

That, at least, makes the specter of failure a little easier to bear. Rex nods, tightening his grip on Jon's hands, and asks, “What do I need to do?”

“Nothing, this time. I’ll lead you. All you have to do is feel.” Jon bows his head, closing his eyes. Quickly, Rex does the same, and he can hear the steady pattern of Jon's breaths change, deepening, evening out. There's a tug, like a hand on his shoulder, but it’s deeper than physical, feels like it’s hooked around his thoughts rather than his shoulder, and Rex wants to turn and look but—

Another breath, and the world _opens_.

Rex goes stiff, almost jerks away from Jon, but at the same time he can't make himself. All around them, a blazing sort of awareness spreads, like echoes in a canyon. Rex feels the shivers of panic hanging in the air, a wash of humor that ripples across something green and deep that gets darker the longer he looks at it. Beyond it, around it—

There are currents. Threads, almost, for all they're invisible, and they pull the greenness onwards, deeper into the stars. Blue fire flickers in corners, an afterimage that’s still fading, and Rex feels…certainty. Purpose. A steady, unwavering awareness of where he is and where he should be and all the pain and suffering felt on this ship. All the justice that was had, and the fact that it came to late, and the knowledge that what he’s doing now is something so vitally important that it outweighs everything else.

“Beyond it,” Jon says quietly, and his awareness spreads. Slides into memory, one footfall on a planet that brings a thousand old victories and ancient losses to life. Hundreds of billions of people, each unique, each forging their way forward, each a candleflame added into one great sum that rises like a bonfire and burns just as brightly.

And through them all, a weave. A direction. Purpose, Rex thinks, and has to swallow. The awareness of something greater, something vast and omnipresent and ever-changing, with no whims that anyone can understand but whims all the same, guided and twisted in equal measure.

“That’s—” Rex starts, and finds he doesn’t have any words.

“The Force,” Jon says, and opens his eyes slowly. Little by little, he pulls back, letting the feeling fade, and Rex wants to reach for it again, wants to drag it back to the forefront, but he doesn’t know how. Helpless, he meets Jon's gaze, finds pale blue eyes watching him in return, and after a long, long moment, Jon inclines his head. Like he heard Rex's desire, or felt it, he says, “I’ll teach you. We can start in an hour.”

Rex felt something. He felt the Force. That means—

“Oh,” he says, a little dazed, and then, “I'm—”

Amusement curls, warm beneath Jon's skin as he rises to his feet, and Rex _knows_ it’s there even if he can't see it on Jon's face. “Going to be a Jedi,” Jon says. “I made a promise. I intend to keep it.”

Before Rex can ask what the hell he means by that, Jon turns, vanishing into the engine room and letting the door slide shut behind him with a soft thump. Rex stares after him, bewildered, and wonders if lessons on dramatic exits come standard with Jedi training.

Well. Apparently he’s going to find out.


	6. Chapter 6

Quinlan is dizzy by the time he turns back towards Shmi's house, head throbbing, his hood pulled all the way up to keep himself out of the painfully bright light rather than to hide his face. He’s never missed T'ra’s healing ability more, but he grits his teeth and pushes through the pain and the nausea anyway.

He needs to get off Tatooine and find Aayla. Everything else is secondary compared to that.

When he makes it back to the deserted street, both suns high above the town, Shmi is sitting on the steps with a tiny satchel beside her. Her hands are folded, and her head is down, and Quinlan would almost think she were praying if he couldn’t feel the cutting, blazing edge of determination and conviction that rides her. There's doubt, too; she doesn’t expect him to come back, but even so, she’s braced for movement, plans spinning through her head.

One push and the resignation that filled her earlier has broken apart. One chance and there’s hope rising again, patching all the scars and gouges of the life she’s lived.

It makes Quinlan smile. Not a happy expression, maybe but a pleased one. He’s always appreciated nerve.

“Here,” he says, and Shmi's head jerks up. She catches the bundle Quinlan tosses her just in time, and blinks down at the holstered blaster that’s resting in her hands. Her bewildered gaze rises to Quinlan, caught between incredulity and relief, and Quinlan smirks at her.

“For self-defense,” he tells her. “On our way off the planet.”

Skepticism shades across her face. “Will this _self-defense_ work against the thermal charge in my head?” she asks, just a little dry.

Gently, Quinlan lobs the other part of his spoils at her. She catches the datachip out of the air with one hand, reflexes surprisingly quick, and when she raises a brow at him, Quinlan just shrugs.

“The blaster might not, but that will,” he says. “Bill of sale, in your name. The detonator has been deactivated. We can find a doctor someplace where I'm less concerned about them harvesting organs on the sly and get the charge removed.”

For a long, long moment, Shmi stares at the datachip. Then, carefully, fingers trembling, she closes her fist around it and presses it to her chest. Bows her head, like she’s trying not to let Quinlan see the emotion that rises in her expression, and says roughly, “Thank you, Master—”

“Quinlan,” Quinlan corrects, and looks away, giving her at least that much privacy. “Or Quin. Come on. We’ve got passage off this sandpit waiting at the port.”

Her laughter is edged with something watery and overwhelmed. “As simple as that? Watto _agreed_?”

Quinlan's skin crawls. He hates slavers. He hates slave owners. If he could set every last one on fire, it wouldn’t be enough. Watto probably recognized some edge of that; even if he’s a money-grubbing businessman, he sold Shmi off after a few bland threats and one good, hard shake by the scruff, and Quinlan is almost disappointed that it didn’t take more.

“We’ll still have to figure out Republic citizenship,” he says with a shrug. “But the Order has people for that. And you have to put up with me for a few weeks while I find Aayla. Some people would probably say that isn't worth it.”

Shmi's hand catches his elbow, and she pulls him around. Her eyes are dry, her face set in lines that are _fierce_ more than anything. “Not me. _Thank you_ ,” she says, and steps forward. Quinlan has half a second to brace himself before her arms wrap tight around him, pulling him in, and she hugs him.

Quinlan freezes, not entirely sure what to do with his hands, and some deep-seated kernel of panic flares. One thing to hug someone who wants to sleep with him. One thing to hug Aayla or Tholme, who are their own category. But this is—this is something different, and mildly alarming, and she’s not touching skin but Quinlan can _feel_ the pulse of the Force around and through her, those gilt threads gone sun-bright and searing.

Finally, awkwardly, Quinlan grimaces at himself and pats her gently on the back. “Don’t thank me for this,” he says. “It’s literally the _least_ anyone should have done, after the help you gave the queen.”

“But you're the one doing it,” Shmi says, and pulls back, smiling at him. It makes Quinlan feel a little hunted. “I've been a slave since I was a little girl, Quinlan. At this point, I didn’t expect anything to change.”

Quinlan grimaces. It’s not the Republic. He has no authority here besides what his lightsaber gives him, but—for a moment he can understand why Dark Jedi sometimes fall to the Dark Side with all the best intentions in the universe. Looking at Shmi, thinking of what she went through, Quinlan maybe understands the urge to take over a planet and force them to obey his laws better than he ever has before.

He won't. He’s a Jedi, even if he walks in the shadows, and Jedi like Tholme and Mace have helped him find his feet there, have helped him hone his control. But—

There's always a but, for Quinlan.

“That all you're taking?” he asks, pulling away, and Shmi nods, apparently content to let him avoid the conversation. She hesitates for a moment, then buckles the holster around her waist, picks up her satchel, and pauses over the chip in her hand. For a long moment, she stares down at it, turning it over in her fingers, then closes her hand around it again. Because he knows what to look for, Quinlan sees her sliding it up her sleeve, but—likely no one else would.

“It’s been filed with Tatooine’s government,” he says. “I can get you copies, if you want.”

Shmi shakes her head. “I’ll make this one into a necklace,” she says, all wry humor, and Quinlan snorts. He waits for her to join him on the street again, and she keeps her eyes fixed forward, her fingers tight around the strap of her bag. She doesn’t look back at her home as they head for the spaceport, and Quinlan thinks of her telling Anakin, all of ten, not to look back, and wonders how kriffing strong she is.

He’s been tied down to his own past for _years_. And like this, steady, set, Shmi is just leaving hers behind, making her way to something better.

“How is your head?” she asks him as they round the edge of a dry goods shop, and Quinlan huffs. He’s potentially not moving as fast as he could, and the pulse of pain in his skull is migrating down his spine.

“Manageable,” is all he says. At Shmi's reproving glance, he snorts, and adds, “But Cad Bane had better not pick now to jump us, or I'm going to be less than useful.”

Shmi's mouth curves, just faintly. “I'm a decent shot,” she says, mild. “Watto would send me out scavenging, and womp rats are everywhere.”

“You mean I should have gotten you blaster rifle,” Quinlan says, and Shmi laughs a little. There are still deep lines around her eyes, her mouth, but the sense of relief and lightness to her burns like a star.

“I would have known what to do with it,” she allows, and Quinlan makes a mental note to find her one as soon as they're somewhere with a better market.

They're only a few hundred meters out from the spaceport when Quinlan's comm chimes, and he checks it quickly, then narrows his eyes at the message. There are no words, no preamble, just a blinking set of numbers that must be hyperspace coordinates. The code is his contact on Nar Shaddaa, and she’s not normally chatty, but this is tightlipped even for her.

Still, it’s a start. It’s a lead on Aayla, and even if Kamino isn't where she was taken, it means _something_. Quinlan needs to find her. He only just got her back. If he loses her _again_ , permanently this time—

“Quinlan?” Shmi asks, concerned, and Quinlan lets out a breath, loosening his grip on his comm.

“Ever heard of Kamino?” he asks on a whim, and Shmi blinks at him.

“Yes,” she says, and Quinlan almost trips over his own feet. He jerks around, staring at her, and Shmi frowns like she’s confused. “The Kaminoans are cloners,” she says. “Outside Hutt space. One of the Hutts who owned me—she had her most loyal guards cloned by them, so she would never be without protection.”

Cloners. But there's no earthly reason why _Aayla_ would know about that, if even Quinlan doesn’t. No reason she would go there, abandoning their mission, abandoning _Quinlan_. The force that has her might be at fault, but—

She was still Aayla. Strange, scattered, but recognizably herself, even in the grip of that unfamiliar power. Quinlan would swear that to anyone who listened.

He can't understand what she would want with a planet full of _cloners_ , though.

“You ever see coordinates for Kamino?” he asks, and Shmi nods. Quinlan shows her the comm message. “That look like it?”

“Yes,” Shmi says with certainty. “That’s Kamino’s position.” She pauses, frowning, and asks, “You're sure your friend went there?”

“My padawan,” Quinlan says grimly. “I don’t know. She mentioned it before she was taken.” He pauses, frowning darkly as the realization that Kamino isn't in the Temple’s Archives settles. Jocasta Nu is _fierce_ about cataloguing information, and if Kamino is known in the Outer Rim, if it’s common enough knowledge out here that Hutts are buying up armies of guards from the cloners there, the Jedi _should_ know about it. Master Nu spent _years_ in the Outer Rim, collecting stories and information, cataloguing systems, finding older reference works. There's no way she missed a whole planet with an intergalactic trade in clones.

The ship Quinlan chartered is waiting at the edge of the port, quiet and unremarkable. The pilot is a Zabrak woman he knows vaguely, more through reputation and other contacts than anything else, but Sugi is waiting patiently on the ramp, cleaning her blaster, when he approaches.

“Vos,” she says, and eyes Shmi. “Runaway slave?”

“Free woman,” Shmi says, and it’s quiet, but there’s an undertone of steel.

Sugi snorts, raising a hand. “I just don’t want a detonator going off on my ship as we leave atmosphere,” she says. “No offense meant.”

“None taken,” Shmi says evenly, and Sugi studies her for a moment, then rises to her feet, holstering the blaster.

“Vos, you mentioned an unknown destination,” she says, hands on her hips. “Know it yet?”

Quinlan flips her the communicator. “Coordinates,” he says. “You're ready to leave?”

“More than.” Sugi wrinkles her nose, checking the numbers. “Tatooine is only fit for womp rats and Tusken Raiders. All the sand is clogging my engines.”

“Then let’s go.” Quinlan catches the communicator when she tosses it back, then follows her up the ramp, Shmi beside him.

“Seats over there, fresher in the back, stay out of my way and we won't have a problem,” Sugi says curtly, jabbing a finger at a set of seats beside a small table. There's a communications array set into the wall there, and when she notices Quinlan eyeing it, she snorts and says, “Try not to drop my name when you call your Temple. I don’t want it known that I run jobs for _Jedi_.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Quinlan says dryly. He drops into the seat, leaving Sugi to take the helm, and punches in the code for the Jedi Archives as Shmi takes the seat across from him.

It takes a moment, but the holoprojector flickers to life, the small blue-tinged figure of Jocasta Nu rising from the table. She’s frowning, concerned, and she looks him over closely as she says, “Quinlan. Have you found Aayla already?”

“No,” Quinlan says grimly. “But I think I found something _you_ should know.”

Jocasta pauses, clearly startled. “Me?” she asks.

“The Archives,” Quinlan amends. “People out here know Kamino. I got the coordinates. It’s south of the Rishi Maze, a planet full of cloners.”

Jocasta folds her hands in front of her, considering this. “Something that well-known would be in the Archives,” she says. “The Jedi wouldn’t have _missed_ such a planet.”

“No,” Quinlan agrees, “they wouldn’t.”

He can see the moment when it registers for Jocasta, the same thought he’s been having. “You believe someone _deleted_ it?” she says, horrified. “But—only Jedi have access to the Archives, and no Jedi would do such a thing.”

Quinlan shrugs. “Sorry, Master Nu,” he says. “That’s the only thing I can think of. Shmi confirmed that Kamino exists, and I had a source corroborate it.”

Jocasta glances over at Shmi, who offers her a quick smile. She bows in return, then looks back to Quinlan with a frown. “I will have to investigate,” she says. “This is most unusual.”

“Get Tholme to help you,” Quinlan offers, mostly a joke, and grins at her. “He always had to translate the most boring books in the Archive when he got in trouble, right?”

With a quiet snort, Jocasta shakes her head. “He and Sifo Dyas and Dooku,” she confirms fondly. “And myself and Nico Diath, though I’ll admit we at least never minded it. The five of us were likely responsible for a vast number of the Archive’s texts—”

Without warning, she breaks off, mouth snapping shut, and goes still.

Blinking, Quinlan leans forward. “Master Nu?” he asks.

There's a breath, steady, reserved. “Quinlan,” Jocasta says. “Thank you for alerting me to a potential problem in the Archives. I need to check something, but comm me again if you need assistance. Force be with you.”

“And with you,” Quinlan says, bemused, but the transmission is already winking out. A little confused, he sits back in his chair, hearing the hum of the engines rise in takeoff, and then looks at Shmi, whose expression is startled.

“That was a Jedi?” she asks. “Is she…a librarian?”

“The toughest, meanest librarian you’ve ever met,” Quinlan says. “Master Tholme swears he saw her wrestle a nexu for a rare manuscript once.”

“And you believe him?” Shmi asks, smiling.

“No,” Quinlan says with perfect sincerity. “I'm pretty sure it was _two_.”

Shmi laughs, soft and sweet and a little rough, and Quinlan lets her. He doesn’t try to protest that he’s being absolutely serious.

Rex is seriously considering an attempt to vibrate out of his own skin when a stylus hits him in the side of the head.

“Ow!” Rex protests, ducking away from any other potential projectiles, and turns on his companion with a scowl. “What was that for?”

Jon looks perfectly unperturbed, and he’s tossing a bolt lightly in one hand like he’s getting ready to throw it. “Training,” he says. “Close your eyes and try to catch what I throw at you.”

“That’s not training, that’s harassment,” Rex says flatly, and takes a prudent step back towards the main bay of the ship. Jon doesn’t move, but the bolt in his hand bounces up, then catches on empty air, spinning gently. Rex looks from it to Jon's expression, and feels a flicker of disbelief rise. “You're serious.”

Jon inclines his head. “Most Masters would teach you with a practice droid and a lightsaber,” he says. “This is easier to manage on a ship.”

“If you haven’t noticed, I don’t _have_ a lightsaber,” Rex says, but he pauses where he is, considering the bolt. “I—did you learn like this? What did your Master throw at you?”

“Rocks. And boulders,” Jon says, perfectly flat. It’s impossible to tell if he’s being serious, and Rex scowls at him. “I won't throw anything heavy or dangerous.”

Slightly doubtful, Rex sets his feet and straightens. “What exactly am I supposed to be learning here?”

Jon sinks down on the deck, crossing his legs beneath him, and rests his hands on his knees. “How to listen to the Force,” he answers.

It takes effort for Rex not to roll his eyes. “I'm a soldier,” he says. “I was bred to be one. If you throw things at me, I have ten years of training that will make me catch them long before the Force does.”

That actually makes Jon smile, faint but amused. “Rex, how do you think the Force speaks to a Jedi?” he asks. “There's no voice in your head, no signal light in the distance. It’s instinct and awareness. We let the Force move us by moving ourselves, and listening to instincts others dismiss.”

“Oh.” Rex considers that, a little unsure. He hadn’t thought it was something so…subtle, though after all the times Anakin failed to listen to it, maybe he should have. Anakin was never good with subtle. “So I just…stand here and let things hit me?”

“Only if you're not paying attention.” Jon flicks his fingers, and there's a rustle. All around the ship, small items rise, hovering in place. They're unnervingly threatening for all that they're tiny. “Close your eyes. Focus on your surroundings.”

Rex sighs through his nose. Being a Jedi isn't something he ever considered, even in vague daydreams, and this—this looks like it’s going to be pain. Maybe literally, depending on how hard Jon throws things at him.

“I don’t even get to throw things back,” he says, half complaint and half joke.

Jon snorts. “That’s the next lesson,” he promises, and Rex feels a flicker of amusement. He closes his eyes, taking another step back, and breathes out.

“My—the Jedi I served never made his padawan do this,” he points out.

“Likely not,” Jon agrees, unperturbed. “It’s an exercise for initiates.”

Rex pulls a face at him, hears his huff of faint amusement, and promptly gets hit in the forehead by the bolt. “Ow!”

“Focus,” Jon says, still patient. “Pay attention to the space around you. Remember how it felt when we touched the Force together. The Force is everywhere. It’s everything. Objects moving through empty space are touched by it, and touch it. Feel how the Force shifts with them.”

Rex grits his teeth. He’s been _trying_ to touch some edge of what Jon showed him all day, reaching for those bits of sensation, the connection, but all he’s gotten is nothing. It’s been enough to make him question, little bits of doubt creeping in, and—

A pillow takes him square in the face.

“ _Kriff_ ,” Rex hisses, and catches it as it falls. He doesn’t fling it back at Jon, because some part of him is still a clone captain with all the reverence of the Jedi that he was raised to have, that years of war reinforced, but—

He definitely thinks about it.

There's a quiet breath, too soft to be a sigh. “Rex,” Jon says softly. “You need to learn, since you have a connection to the Force. For your own safety, but also for the safety of others.”

Swallowing, Rex opens his eyes, looking down at the pillow. He thinks, again, of Anakin in the medical tent, high on painkillers after a bad battle, and the way things rattled and flew. The way he answered thoughts like they were spoken and could change people’s moods just by telling them to be happier, and…it’s almost impossible to connect himself with that kind of power.

But Jon is telling him he has it, and maybe Rex never thought of being a Jedi before, but he’s thinking about it _now_ , and he’s thinking about his brothers, and he’s thinking about a whole _galaxy_ of people who need him.

When Jon told him that even without a connection to the Force he’d still be the man who survived the Empire, it was true, and Rex can recognize that. But he’s also fully aware of just how much of an edge the Jedi have in almost any situation, and just how powerful they are.

“Help me,” he says, the words feeling just a little too ragged in his throat. “Tell me what—I have no idea—”

He doesn’t hear Jon rise or move, but suddenly there's a hand on his elbow, light. Rex opens his eyes and looks into Jon's scarred face, expecting annoyance. There's none, though. Just quiet patience, a trace of steady faith that curls around Rex's raw nerves and settles his heartbeat.

“Breathe,” Jon says softly. “Close your eyes. This is the only moment that exists. Everything that came before is past. Everything that will come is yet to happen. Breathe in and feel it fill your lungs. Breathe out and feel the flow of it.”

Clear, concise instructions help. Rex closes his eyes, and—like that, with those directions, it’s easier to relax. Easier not to worry, to settle some of the frustration and panic that have been riding him all day. It’s just breathing, just focusing. Like blaster practice, and lining up a shot, and maybe he’s never been the marksman that Cody is, but he can hit what he aims at. The theory is all the same, anyway.

“Emotion, yet peace,” Jon murmurs, and there's a faint rustle of cloth. “Feel, but don’t let it overwhelm you.”

Like Anakin, Rex wants to say, but there are dark thoughts down that path. He keeps breathing, tries to keep his attention on how it feels each time he inhales and then exhales, on the edges of—something. What Jon showed him, maybe. It’s like trying to make out the details of a shape in the darkness, with only one brief moment of sight to rely on. He _thinks_ he can—

His hand jerks up, and he bats a bottle out of the air as it soars towards his chest.

Instantly, the concentration is broken. Rex's eyes snap open, and he grabs for the bottle as it rebounds, fumbles but catches it before it can hit the ground. Jerks his head up, startled, and finds Jon watching him, a small smile pulling at just the corner of his mouth.

“Congratulations,” he says, lowering his hand. “You did it.”

“It was just…” _instinct_ , Rex almost says, but he remembers Jon's words about the Force as instinct, and has to swallow. Looks at the bottle, curling his fingers tight around it for a moment, and it’s such a small thing, managing this. He’s done similar things a thousand times before, grabbing things out of the air without looking when his brothers were tossing them back and forth, or when Fives and Hardcase decided to play keep away from Tup and Rex intervened. But—

Maybe it’s that lingering awareness of something bigger, something vaster than Rex has any words to describe. This feels…special. Like a step forward.

“Think you can do it again?” Jon asks, and he’s still almost-smiling, small and soft.

Rex glances up, smirks. Tosses the bottle up into the air and snags it as it falls, and asks, “Do I get to throw things back?”

The amusement in pale eyes deepens, warms. “If you want,” Jon says mildly, and instead of dropping into the nearest chair like a normal person, he leaps up lightly, pulls himself up to sit on the back of it. Perches there, like some oversized bird or big feline, with one leg crossed beneath him and the other braced on the arm of the chair, and brings his hands together, facing upwards, with his right hand resting on top of his left palm and his thumbs touching. He closes his eyes, and all around the ship the floating objects start to spin in place, like they're eager to chuck themselves at Rex's person.

A little aggravated, Rex eyes the bottle in his hand, then flips it up, catches it, and lobs it right at Jon's head.

Instantly, smoothly, the bottle veers off, then falls into a steady orbit around Jon, spinning innocently in the air.

“Oh, that’s how it is?” Rex asks, folding his arms over his chest. “Whatever I throw back at you, you save to chuck at me later?”

“It’s your choice to throw things at me needlessly,” Jon says calmly, like Rex can't see that there’s _still_ that pull at the corner of his mouth, all amusement. “If I make use of the side effects of your aggression, that’s simply a reflection of my inner peace.”

“You fed a man to his own _vornskrs_ ,” Rex says incredulously.

“And I felt very peaceful as I did so. Close your eyes. We aren’t done.”

Rex rolls his eyes, very obviously, and then closes them as instructed. It’s easier to fall into that quiet focus this time, takes a little less effort to simply concentrate on his breathing rather than his anxiety.

He catches the next stylus before it can peg him between the eyes and says, aggravated, “Now you’re just being a bastard.”

“I could be using vibroblades,” Jon says mildly, and Rex pulls a face and pointedly drops the stylus at his feet. He’s not about to give Jon any more ammunition.

But—

Well. It’s a lot less like Rex is about to claw his way out of his own skin now, and he sneaks a glance at Jon, still and peaceful on his perch. This isn't anything like a lesson on Kamino, or how Anakin taught Ahsoka, and Jon isn't much like any Jedi Rex has met before.

That’s not turning out to be entirely a bad thing.


	7. Chapter 7

Jon's hands won't stop shaking.

The sounds of Rex poking around the tiny kitchen are loud, jarring, but the ringing in his ears is louder. Jon tries not to curl in on himself, tries not to show any trace of what he’s feeling, keeps his eyes fixed on the stars outside the viewscreen instead.

 _Emotion, yet peace_.

He made it through the first lesson without hurting Rex. Surely that needs to count for something.

_I made a promise to Aayla. Rex won't be defenseless. I’ll protect him. Even if that means teaching him._

The sheer idea of teaching someone is nothing but terror, though. All he can think of is Dark Woman, her methods, and—they work. They make sense. Rex isn't a child, and can probably handle them better, and Jon himself turned out to be a very good Jedi, but—

But Jon can't do that to anyone else. He _can't_. Even with his promise to Aayla, even knowing just how much rests on Rex learning to defend himself and use his abilities, the most he can do is toss styluses and pillows at Rex and call it training.

He slides out of the chair, onto the floor beneath the instrument panel, and wishes for his cloak. Doesn’t try to summon it from across the ship, because that’s pathetic, but crosses his legs beneath himself and rests his forehead against cool metal, trying not to think of anything. Breathing is easy to focus on, to control, and he does, tries not to let himself slip back into memories.

There are no memories before Dark Woman. She found him as an infant, raised him as all the tenants and strengths of the Jedi Order given form. She gave him his conviction, his faith, his power, and he loves her the way someone might love a wildfire, or an avalanche. Can't be near her, doesn’t _want_ to be, and he refuses to be like her, but—

Dark Woman shaped him, and raised him, and she wasn’t cruel in every moment. There are a thousand reasons to be grateful to her, but Jon _can't_ be like her. Not in this.

Rex has already suffered enough. He’s a man trying to do good. Jon won't hurt him, even in the name of training.

There's a flicker in the darkness, blue and gold, and Jon watches the little eddy of light twist through the darkness and then fade. Taking a breath, he closes his eyes, reaches out, and feels Aayla's nova-warm presence just beyond the ship, steady and sweet.

 _Lady Aayla,_ he offers.

There are no words, just a brush of vast power. The world ripples, and with a startling jerk Jon is suddenly on his knees somewhere humid and hot. He opens his eyes to the sight of colorful fungus growing to vast sizes, golden earth and blue water and a white sky, and breathes in. Felucia, but—not quite.

Familiar tall boots and brown robes come to a stop in front of him, and a moment later a Twi’lek woman sinks down to her knees, mouth curled in a rueful smile. “Hello,” she says, and she’s not glowing, not burning, not bleeding pure energy like a star.

“Master Aayla, I presume,” Jon says after a moment, voice rasping in his throat, and Aayla sighs and tilts her head, lekku draped around her shoulders.

“Master Antilles,” she returns, and there's humor in it, a touch of regret. “I think—I did something to you. I'm sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Jon says, and means it. “The Force guides all of us. You’ve just been caught up in more of it than most of us.”

Aayla rubs her eyes, bowing her head. “I don’t want to be here,” she says. “But this is all I see when I close my eyes. Bly—”

She breaks off, but Jon can feel the roil of her emotions, a match to his own. Fear, and dismay, and horror, and grief. He hesitates, but—

“Aayla,” he says quietly, and when she raises her head, he offers her his hands.

For a long moment, Aayla just looks at them. Then, slowly, her gaze slides up to his face, and she smiles, just a little.

“My Master always used to wear that same expression,” she says with good humor, and slides her hands into Jon's, wrapping her fingers tight around his. “Whenever he didn’t know what to do, he’d look at me like that.”

Jon snorts softly, but he lets their hands rest on his knees as Aayla shifts closer. She’s warmer than she should be, like the fire is all contained and bound up just beneath the surface of her skin. He doesn’t flinch away from it, though, doesn’t loosen his grip. Just watches her, and breathes, and says, “It happened. But it won't happen again.”

Aayla's eyes close for a long moment, and she smiles. This time, there’s no rueful, unhappy edge to it; it’s pure relief, warm and soft.

“No,” she agrees, and opens eyes that glow with just a hint of gold. “And yours won't, either. Trust yourself, Master Antilles.”

Something in Jon's chest twists. “I can't,” he says plainly. “The way she trained me—if I resort to that—”

“Rex isn't a padawan,” Aayla says gently, and she’s fading, becoming more vivid. Like the fire is leeching out of her, the lines of her body are starting to go indistinct, eaten away by blue brilliance. “He isn't a child dependent on your care, Master Antilles. He’s a partner, even if he needs your wisdom.”

“I don’t have any,” Jon says truthfully, and Aayla laughs, the sound shifting, echoing, washing out like starlight as she opens glowing eyes, a being of fire once more.

“ ** _You have faith, Master Antilles,_** ” she says, vast. “ ** _It steadies you. Rex has been running for too long, lost in cold galaxy. Steady him now, show him, and that will be enough_**.”

Jon swallows, and opens his hands, letting Aayla pull free and rise like light at dawn. “Even if you doubt, keep moving,” he says quietly, and feels her gaze on him like a weight, tangible and titanic. “Trust the Force, and trust yourself, Master Aayla.”

There's no answer, just a fading wash of blue as the world around them dissolves, but when Jon opens his eyes to the dim interior of the ship, his hands are tingling. He turns them over, studying the backs, and there are dots of azure like fingerprints, four of them, pressed into the skin over two of his largest scars there.

The fear is still there, and hasn’t faded, but—Jon can breathe through it now, and that’s far better than it was.

“Jon?” Rex says, somewhere behind him, and there are steps, firm on the decking. Purposeful, even if Rex might not recognize that himself. He walks like a man who knows himself, and has fought for the right to move where he does.

“Here,” Jon says, low and rough in his throat, strangled by memory and the shreds of hope in equal measure. He turns his hands back over, hiding them in his sleeves, not because he’s ashamed of Aayla's marks, but—because they're private. Aayla's moment of insecurity is private, and Jon won't drag it out into the light when it was shared with him.

A moment later, Rex leans over the back of the pilot’s chair, brows rising. Dark brows, startling against his very blond hair, and it makes Jon want to smile. Instead, though, he just raises one in return, tilting his head back to look at Rex from his place on the ground.

“Comfy?” Rex asks, bemused.

“Yes,” Jon says peaceably, because it’s more or less true. He doesn’t mind small spaces; they're comforting, usually. “Was there something you needed?”

“Food,” Rex says, and Jon can feel the amused flicker of _Jetii_ from him, one word full of fondness and exasperation in equal measure. “For both of us, I mean. It’s in the kitchen if you want any.”

Carefully, Jon unfolds himself from beneath the console, sliding out of the narrow gap. “Thank you,” he says.

“I checked the supplies, too,” Rex offers, leading the way back towards the kitchen. “There should be enough to last us a week or two, depending on how fond you are of protein bars.”

“Protein bars are fine.” There will be extra supplies on Ilum, as well, left there by Jedi for later travelers and preserved by the cold. Nothing particularly fancy, but enough to survive on. Even if the temple there isn't staffed, it’s maintained well enough, and Jon has made use of it several times over the years, when he needs to replace or repair his lightsaber or simply when he wants a quiet place to recover and meditate. Ilum is harder to reach than Dagobah, but there's also far less chance of anyone—whether Fay or Dark Woman—tracking him down there.

“Easy for you to say.” There's a thread of good humor in Rex's voice, though, and Jon takes the plate he’s handed, watching Rex closely. The successful lesson seems to have helped, and even if the idea of trying again makes something small and tense and hunted curl in Jon's stomach, it’s a simple enough way to keep Rex’s spirits up. Jon doesn’t want to overwhelm him, but—getting a handle on his abilities can only help in the long run.

“How do you feel?” Jon asks quietly, and settles into one of the chairs, crossing his legs beneath himself. It’s a tight fit, even though the chair is large, but Jon has spent most of his life camped out, sitting on rocks or trees or bare ground. Being forced to sit properly in a chair makes him itch.

“Fine.” Rex gives him an odd look, taking the other chair. His plate is heaped with food, more than Jon would expect any two people to eat in a regular meal, and when Rex catches Jon looking, he flushes faintly, cheeks going pink. “I—there's more if you want it, I didn’t take it all. But the clones are engineered to be the peak of human performance, and we need a lot of calories—”

Jon raises his hands, amused. “Rex, eat as much as you want. There will be more supplies on Ilum. We’re not facing a shortage.”

“Oh,” Rex says, a little chagrined, and takes a few bites. Swallows, and then adds, like it’s a kneejerk response, “In the Rebellion, they always—no one liked a clone being there anyway, and me taking enough rations for three people was—even worse, so—”

Jon watches his face for a moment, remembering some of the first words Rex said to him on Dagobah. _When the clone troopers turned on the Jedi. Your men—they didn’t. They weren’t in control of themselves._

Immediate, desperate defense of his fellow clones. Clones who were forced to massacre the Jedi, because of control chips no one knew about. And Rex, in the aftermath of that, alone and unaltered, adrift in a universe that was crashing down into something terrible. Rex trying to fight for the right thing, but caught and hampered on all sides by everyone else’s belief that the clones betrayed the Jedi. That Rex's brothers were traitors, and that Rex was one too by association.

Not a fair assessment, but that’s never mattered nearly enough.

“Super soldiers would logically need a lot of food,” Jon says, even, and sees the line of Rex's shoulders ease slightly at the reasonable words, the lack of accusation in his tone. “I’ll make a note, for when I'm resupplying.”

Rex's relief is a flare in the dark, deep-seated and bright. “There _is_ plenty in the kitchen,” he says again, sheepish, like Jon expressed doubt.

Jon just tips one shoulder in a shrug. “I'm used to rations,” he says truthfully. “This is already more than I need. You should finish it, or it will go to waste.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that,” Rex says, a flicker of his good humor returning to ride the relief, and he sets into his meal quickly and neatly, eating at a pace that’s a little bewildering. Used to rations on the move, Jon assumes, eating whenever he has a moment—both in the army the Jedi apparently commanded and the Rebellion where he was an outsider because of his history. Jon eats much more slowly, methodically, still only halfway through his portion when Rex goes to get seconds. It’s partially calculated so that Rex won't feel he’s eating alone, and partially because hot food is a luxury Jon doesn’t always allow himself, and therefore something to be enjoyed.

“How far to Ilum?” Rex asks in between bites. “We’ve already been traveling at least a day—”

“A little over thirty-six hours,” Jon corrects, and sets his plate aside, picked clean. “It will be another two days before we’re at Ilum, and then it will likely take us several on the planet itself.”

“Doing what?” Rex asks, pointed. “You still haven’t said _why_ we’re heading for an old temple in the middle of nowhere.”

Jon smiles, just faintly, and sinks back in his seat. “For an aspect of your training,” he says. “Ilum is special. You’ll see when we get there.” When Rex pulls a face at him, he laughs quietly, ducking his head, and says, “Don’t be impatient.”

When Jon glances up again, Rex is staring at him, a faintly odd look on his face, fork hovering in midair. At Jon's raised brow, he blinks, looking back down at his food, and clears his throat deliberately.

“Are all Jedi this cryptic?” he asks, gruff. “I know General Kenobi was, but I thought it was just part of his charm.”

Jon snorts. “We do it to torture padawans. You might not be one officially, but you get to take part anyway.” Which is a reminder that he needs to come up with some sort of solution for that—simply training Rex won't make him a Jedi, but there are protections afforded to Jedi, and benefits to having the full weight of the Order behind them. If Jon claims to have trained a padawan within a month though, he’s going to get laughed out of the known galaxy. Not to mention what they’ll say about him taking an adult man as a padawan learner.

Rex rolls his eyes, taking the last few bites. “Great, thanks,” he says sardonically. “I'm honored.” Pauses, and then asks, “Are we going to do more training after this?”

Jon hadn’t been planning to, but—their exercise earlier helped Rex settle himself, and Jon has felt his turmoil enough to want to help him as much as possible. He doesn’t even have to weigh the decision, just says quietly, “Yes. I’m going to teach you katas.”

“Lightsaber forms?” Rex asks, and there's a bright note of interest in his voice.

Tipping his shoulder in a shrug, Jon corrects, “Fighting forms. The lightsaber ones will come later, but I can teach you the basic steps and help you find whichever suits you best.”

Rex opens his mouth, then hesitates. The curiosity and tempered glee of a moment before slides into consternation, and he says carefully, “I already know how to fight. If I want to keep that…”

For a long moment, Jon considers him, weighing his words. He of all people understands being tripped up by the past. Understands clinging to happy things, or at leas familiar things. But no one can live that way forever, not with fate bearing down on them. Aayla wouldn’t have set Jon the task of training Rex if he was sufficient in his skills, if he wasn’t in danger, and Jon doesn’t quite know how to put that in words without sounding insulting.

“You can fight hand to hand,” he acknowledges slowly, because that much is clear just watching Rex move. He knows every inch of himself, knows how to make his own body a weapon. “And you can fight with a blaster. Would you use the same tactics against a person with a rotary blaster and one with a vibroblade?”

“Of course not,” Rex starts, and then stops short, frowning. “You mean it’s just a style.”

Jon inclines his head. “Katas can be meditation,” he says. “Or exercise. Or a warmup before sparring. They're a style built on centuries of Jedi learning and teaching each other. I understand wanting to keep what you know, but the Jedi have spent a very long time developing their own techniques for a reason.”

There's a moment of careful silence, and then Rex sighs, rubbing his hands over his face. “I'm not—it’s not meant as me saying the Jedi don’t know what they're doing, or that my way is better,” he says, frustrated. “But—I already went through all of this once. Do you really have the time to show me again?”

With a faint smile, Jon unfolds himself from his chair, collecting their dishes. “I don’t have time _not_ to show you,” he counters.

“That makes no sense,” Rex says flatly.

Jon raises a brow at him. “It makes perfect sense,” he replies. “Trying to learn how you fight well enough to teach you to incorporate a lightsaber into your style most efficiently would take me a very long time. Katas are basic, and with your background of combat training you’ll pick them up very quickly.”

For a second, Rex just stares at him. “You couldn’t just _say_ that?”

“I did say that,” Jon reminds him, unruffled, and takes their plates to the small sink. “You just weren’t listening.”

“I heard exactly what you said—”

“You heard the words, but you weren’t _listening_.” Jon rinses the dishes, then slides them into the sanitizer, and shuts the door of it just as a hand grabs the back of his tunic. Rex pulls him around with a hard tug, stepping right into his space, and he’s a good handful of inches shorter than Jon but he still _looms_.

“Are you _laughing_ at me, _Jetii_?” he demands, like Jon can't feel the incredulous humor bubbling up in him.

Jon raises his hands, perfectly innocent, expression as mild as a summer sky. “Do I look like I'm laughing at you, Rex?”

“Yeah,” Rex says dryly, and leans in, a hand in the front of Jon's robes dragging him down to eye-level. “You do.”

Jon considers his options. He could step away, deescalate and admit to teasing and let Rex laugh about it and then go back to brooding. Or—

“I've been told,” he says, perfectly serious, “that distance can make it hard to tell.”

Incredulity slides across Rex's face, bright-edged with humor. “You _bastard_ ,” he says. “Did you just call me short?”

Raising a brow, Jon casts a deliberate glance from Rex in his boots to his hold on Jon's robes, pulling him into a very obvious bend to put them on the same level. He says nothing, very loudly.

Rex's expression twists around the laughter he’s trying to keep contained, and he scoffs. “Listen, bastard, my genetic template is the most dangerous bounty hunter in the known universe—”

“And also short,” Jon observes mildly.

With a sound of sheer offense, Rex lunges. Jon has half a second to brace himself as a boot sweeps his feet out from under him, sending him toppling, and he hits the ground on his back, rolls, but Rex is quicker. He twists, and they're rolling again before Jon even has time to blink, tumbling down the ramp into the center of the ship. Rex comes out on top, and he grabs Jon's wrists with a sound of victory, pins him to the decking with a knee on his thigh and a hand in the center of his chest, leaning over him and grinning.

“Now who’s short, Jedi?” he demands, and Jon laughs before he can help it, not struggling against Rex's hold.

“I don’t think that’s quite how it works,” he says, and wrinkles his nose at the tangled hair falling over his face. “Are you happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” Rex says dryly, and raises a brow at him. “Having trouble?”

“You can get off now,” Jon reminds him, pointed, but Rex just hums and doesn’t move.

“Are you going to make more cracks about my height if I do?”

“Technically,” Jon says, in the interest of fairness, “I made a crack about Jango's height.”

Rex snorts. “You're the one who probably gives people cricks in their necks when you go to kiss them,” he counters. “I don’t think you have any right to laugh.”

Jon flushes, just faintly. “Unless you're kissing me, I don’t think we’ll have a problem,” he says.

Rex opens his mouth, then freezes, like he’s suddenly become aware of their position, the way he’s pinning Jon down with a knee braced between his thighs. Eyes widening, he scrambles to his feet, then steps away, and says, “You're not even _that_ tall.”

Jon's face is pink, and he knows it. Still, he rises with all the dignity he has and says, “You were the one who implied I was.”

“My mistake,” Rex mutters, rolling his eyes, and then says, a little more forcefully than is probably entirely necessary, “ _So_. If I don’t have a lightsaber for these katas, what am I using instead?”

Jon takes two deliberate steps back, then reaches out and deliberately picks a long-handled spoon off the counter. Solemnly, he offers it to Rex, careful to keep his face absolutely expressionless.

“Oh, you _bastard_ ,” Rex says again, incredulous.

Jon doesn’t laugh at him, but it takes _effort_. “It’s roughly the same weight as a lightsaber,” he says, which is a mild exaggeration, but the look on Rex's face is too amusing not to try.

“It’s a _spoon_ ,” Rex says, supremely unimpressed, and advances on him. “How about I use your lightsaber, and _you_ use the spoon?”

“Are you really not going to listen to a Jedi Master?” Jon ducks aside before he can be pinned to the counter again and retreats towards the open space. When he tosses the spoon at Rex's head, Rex catches it, more reflex than anything, and Jon can't help but smile, just a little. “I'm in charge of your training.”

“You're _mocking me_ ,” Rex says, faux outrage in his voice. “I'm not fighting with a spoon.”

“It’s character-building to endure the absurd in the name of training.”

“It’s a karking _spoon_ and I don’t think the Sith Lord is going to do anything but laugh himself to death if I threaten him with it.”

“A simple solution to our problems.” Jon slides behind one of the chairs just as Rex flings the spoon right back at him, and it rebounds off. Twitching a finger, Jon sends it soaring up off the floor to circle Rex like a mishappen moon, and Rex makes a sound of pure annoyance and lunges. His fingers just skim Jon's tunic as Jon darts away again, and he catches his balance, snags the circling spoon out of the air, and advances on Jon with it raised like a weapon.

“Let’s see how _you_ like it,” he threatens.

Jon hums mildly, still retreating into the open space. “Shoulders back,” he says. “Straighten your spine. Advance with your left foot leading and try to keep your weight balanced—lightsabers weigh far less than blasters, and you’ll have to teach yourself to accommodate the change.”

Rex gives him a disbelieving look, and Jon smiles, just a faint curl of his lips, trying not to show his rising humor. “Spoon up,” he says mercilessly. “Chest height, parallel to the floor. Both hands on the hilt—”

“It’s a _spoon_ , it doesn’t have a hilt—”

“—and imagine blocking incoming strikes, so give yourself the ability to move. Shii-Cho is the first form, and closest to fighting with a vibrosword. Keep your blade—”

“ _Spoon_ —”

“—horizontal to block, vertical to attack. Advance with each strike, and aim for the head and the hands. A hard enough strike will disarm your opponent, if executed correctly.”

“Where’s _your_ spoon?” Rex asks pointedly. “Don’t tell me you're going to use a lightsaber against this fearsome weapon I'm holding.”

Jon snorts softly, and raises a hand. A carved baton, clearly picked up as a trinket somewhere, works itself free of a shelf and soars across the room to drop into his grip, and Jon raises it, vertical and ready to strike.

“How come _you_ get the actual stick?” Rex want to know.

“Knock it out of my hands and we can trade,” Jon tells him, and steps forward, a deliberate movement, feet in the precise positions Dark Woman taught him when he was a small child, and strikes. Rex's spoon catches the baton, and Jon falls back, slowly and obviously shifting his stance to bring his blade up in the stance for a counter. It’s a test, more than anything, to see how well Rex is able to work things out, and—

With a frown, Rex shifts, copying and reversing the motion, and lifts his spoon into the strike position. Pauses, adjusting, and Jon feels a flicker of satisfaction. Super soldier does indeed mean what he thought it did. Or Rex is just very clever. Or both, potentially.

“Foot forward a few inches,” he says. “Loosen your grip a little. You're not trying to strangle the blade.”

“It’s a _karking_ _spoon_.”

“It’s your weapon and your life,” Jon says solemnly, not letting himself smile, and Rex makes a sound of sheer disgust and throws it right at his head.


	8. Chapter 8

Rex falls asleep tired but satisfied, out as soon as he hits the overly-soft pillow, and wakes shuddering and choking barely four hours later, every muscle locked.

The terror of the Temple is too close, too harsh. The images of the crash fill his head, the feeling of dirt becoming grave dirt under his hands, the way Jesse's helmet felt as he hung it on the marker. Bodies, and brothers, and deaths that never needed to happen, but—

The Sith Lord controlled both sides of the war. The Sith Lord _wanted_ them to suffer. And they did.

Rex buries his face in his knees for a long moment, trying to catch his breath, but the dream is too close. It took all the bits and pieces of his memories and strung them together, didn’t relent, and Rex is shaking, breathing too fast again. Not because it was a dream. Because it was _real_ , and sorting out the moments, trying to remember that Echo and Fives and Tup weren’t all lost at the same moment as Jesse, makes him remember how they _were_ lost. That brings the terror.

Hissing a curse at himself, Rex uncoils, slides out of bed. The shock of his feet against the cold floor makes his head spin, but he pushes himself forward, out into the star-streaked darkness of the ship in hyperspace. He doesn’t know where he wants to go, has no idea what to do, but the instinct to move and run and hide is too close, too ingrained. He’s been running for years now, hiding, fighting as best he can. For the Rebellion, but—

For his brothers most of all.

It hurts. It _hurts_ , that no one in the Rebellion ever knew or cared that the clones were slaves, controlled by chips. The Jedi's murderers, and hated for that, hated for being the faceless soldiers behind Palpatine’s rise, but the Jedi weren’t the only ones destroyed by Order 66. The Jedi weren’t the only people wiped out with three little words and a madman’s will. Rex lost _everyone_ , in that moment. Everyone except Ahsoka, and she had left shortly afterwards to fight.

And then it had just been Rex, trying to save the clones. Trying to find some way to deactivate the chips that wasn’t invasive brain surgery, and failing, right up until Bly cornered him on Felucia.

Rex's breath hitches, shakes. His foot hits something soft, and he jerks, lifting his head—

Jon. Jon, the first Jedi Rex has seen in this time, this time when the Jedi still _exist_. He’s curled up at the foot of one of the chairs, lanky limbs folded close, cloak wrapped around himself. The closest fold is under Rex's foot, and he jerks it away, stumbles back. Sits down hard, staring at Jon, and it feels like there’s a hand around his throat, a knot in his stomach.

There's a Jedi here. There's a Jedi _alive_ here, and he’s exactly what Rex has wanted for so long. Help, inscrutable and enigmatic and one step to the left of Rex's own grounded reality, and he thinks again of the universe Jon showed him, the spread of _awareness_ , of bright light and cold shadow and everything in between, the purpose that lodged itself deep in Rex's chest and stayed there.

Rex can't see that on his own. Rex can't do this on his own. Force-sensitive or not, he’s not a Jedi. Not yet. Not without help. Not without _Jon_.

He thinks again of Jesse's helmet beneath his hands, the weight of his brothers’ bodies. His breath hitches, shakes, tangles, and before he can help it Rex is moving. Maybe it’s the memory of Fives and Echo, or maybe it’s just desperation, the years since anyone has touched him for anything but a fight, but Rex stumbles forward, drops to his knees right next to Jon. There's a jerk as Jon comes awake, pale eyes flashing open, alarm on his face as he shoves up, but Rex catches him. Rex catches him and folds into him and buries his face in Jon's throat.

Maybe he’s shaking. At this point, Rex can't even tell.

For a moment, Jon doesn’t move, frozen where he is beneath Rex's weight, still and tense and waiting. But then, slowly, he shifts, and a hand cups the back of Rex's head, long fingers brushing his skin. Jon's other arm loops around his shoulders, careful, light, a little uncertain. The press of his fingertips between Rex's shoulder blades makes Rex close his eyes, something in his chest aching.

It’s been—so long. So long since he let himself get this close to anyone, or _could_ get this close to anyone. Skin contact is a shock, bright-sharp and enough to make him greedy, and he presses his nose into Jon's dark hair and just breathes for a long moment.

Slowly, carefully, Jon shifts. He doesn’t try to dislodge Rex, doesn’t try to get away, but uncoils his limbs and straightens a little and then pulls Rex closer, right up against him. Rex takes the offered space gladly, hungrily, curling into Jon, pinning him to the chair, and he tells himself he’ll let go in a moment, he’ll give Jon space soon, but—

“Bad dreams?” Jon asks quietly, and Rex's breath rattles through the emptiness of his lungs, his hollowed-out chest. It’s not a laugh, even though it wants to be.

“Memories,” he says, the word half-choked, and Jon's breath is low and resigned and understanding. He turns his head a little, giving Rex a little more room, and then goes still again. Rex doesn’t mind. The beat of Jon's pulse is tangible, the movement of his chest as he breathes is familiar.

On bad nights, after big battles, Rex and Cody would share a bunk or a bedroll sometimes. They’d curl up together, breathe together, just taking advantage of skin and the knowledge that there was someone still alive that they _could_ cling to. Cody was always Rex's ballast, his anchor, more experienced and calmer and wiser, and—

Order 66 swallowed him whole. Rex caught one glimpse of him, after the end, and he was nothing but a puppet, parroting lines. Following orders, all of his sly humor gone, all of his reckless calculation filed away until there was nothing left. And that had hurt more than anything else, more than Bly, more than Wolffe, even more than Jesse. Because Cody was supposed to be the Marshal Commander, the leader, the one with unwavering faith in the Jedi and their ability to win the war. And yet—

“Breathe,” Jon murmurs, and Rex does, the sound shuddering out of him on a sob. He tangles his hands in Jon's tunic, grips like he’s going to crawl inside Jon's skin, but Jon doesn’t move. He holds Rex there, fingertips Fives points of heat against his bare back, and Rex is more grateful than he can put into words.

“I shouldn’t—they're _alive_ right now,” Rex says raggedly, and he knows he shouldn’t be in mourning, should instead be fighting to save them, but—

“One change doesn’t make what you lived through obsolete,” Jon says. “What you experienced isn't undone by traveling back.”

The words shouldn’t help. They should hurt, if anything, because there was so much loss, so much death, and to know that that isn't undone should tear at Rex's heart.

And yet, somewhere deep in his chest, things settle. Rex's next breath doesn’t shake, and he closes his eyes, swallows. Feels the easing, like the fist around his heart is loosening, and—validation, maybe. A recognition, finally allowed, that the world hasn’t just been reset. Changed, set up for _him_ to change, but still there.

“It happened,” Jon says, soft. “But it won't happen again.”

_This is the only moment that exists. Everything that came before is past. Everything that will come is yet to happen._

“Shouldn’t you be telling me to get over it?” Rex asks, and it’s an accusation but he still doesn’t lift his head. “There is no emotion, there is peace—”

Jon's hand spreads across his spine, flattens over his back. strokes down, just once, but the touch is enough to drag heat across Rex's nerve endings, to make him still.

“That’s one version of our mantra,” Jon says. “The one we first teach to children is the one I use.” A pause, and he tips his head back a little, eyes closing. “It’s a comfort,” he says.

“Mantra,” Rex repeats, and—that’s startling. He’d thought—

But maybe Anakin isn't the best one to base his knowledge of the Jedi Code on, given what happened.

He can feel Jon nod, the breath he takes. “A meditation mantra,” he says. “To guide us into it. _There is emotion, yet peace. Ignorance, yet knowledge. Passion, yet serenity. Chaos, yet harmony. Death, yet the Force._ ”

It’s just words. It’s just words, and yet it hits in a way Rex doesn’t expect, lodges behind his breastbone. _Death, yet the Force_ , he thinks, and his eyes burn as he keeps them tightly closed. He wants to cry, but—

“The Jedi would have joined the Force,” he says, ragged. “But the clones—”

There's a breath against his temple, a tightening of Jon's hands on his back. “The Force is everywhere,” he says. “It’s everything. All living things create it and are created by it. It’s not meant for the Jedi alone, Rex. If your brothers existed, they joined the Force.”

They existed. Despite all attempts, despite all the pain afterwards, they all existed, and Rex will never forget that.

Rex swallows, exhales. “And the Force—”

“When you touch it, you touch them. Not as they were, but as they are. They are always there.”

The certainty in Jon's voice is as steady as stone, as unyielding as the ocean. He doesn’t waver, and the faith resonates. Rex almost thinks he can feel it, the steady weave of it, the pressure against his skin. Faith and certainty, and—

Rex has been without either for years now, and he _wants_.

“Thank you,” he says, rough, and Jon strokes his back once more, then lets his hand slide down to rest loosely, politely over Rex's ribs.

“Your grief is never something to be ashamed of,” he says softly. “Nothing you feel should be ignored. But it shouldn’t control you, and the only way to keep it from doing so is to face it.”

Anakin never faced any emotion in his _life_ , Rex thinks, and it still hurts a little, his reaction when Rex wanted to search for Echo. Caution, and rationality, and reluctance, like Anakin hadn’t thrown himself into battle and risked the lives of his padawan and all his men to rescue a _droid_ before. But he’s not taking Anakin as an example. He _won't_. Anakin killed children, marched with Torrent and slaughtered every last initiate in the Temple. Forced troopers to kill innocents, and that knowledge burns in Rex's heart, indignation and rage and grief, and he pushes them down—

“No,” Jon says, soft but firm, and his hands rise. He cups Rex's face between his hands, and when Rex opens his eyes, startled, Jon is watching him. There's sympathy on his face, care, but also an intractability that makes Rex pause. “Rex, don’t suppress it. Search out what you’re feeling. Look to it, assess it, understand it.” His thumb brushes beneath Rex's eye, smearing something wet, and Rex pauses, startled, to realize that he’s crying. “I can help, if you want me to.”

“Please,” Rex says, and Jon doesn’t hesitate. He leans in, pressing their foreheads together, and the intimacy makes Rex startle, gives him pause. But then a flicker of not-his presence is in his head, like a shadow against a sun, and it’s that same deep green depth he felt before, deep forests in the gentle night. Jon touches him, and—

It’s like Rex can _see_ , sudden and jarring. Like he can feel the tangle of his own soul, the press of color and weight that’s wound through it. Rage, and Rex wants to pull back because there’s so _much_ of it.

But Jon is there. Jon draws it up, lays it out, and Rex breathes through it, the fury that’s rooted deep and dark inside of him. Anakin, he thinks, and there's no image but the Temple, the recording, Anakin's familiar blue lightsaber igniting as the first youngling looked up at him, the way the clones behind him raised their blasters. It was a massacre, and Rex's general used Rex's men to do it. Used Rex's _friends_ , his subordinates, his brothers, and Rex trained so many of those men, saw them come from wide-eyed shinies to brave soldiers, and in an instant Anakin saw that wiped away and didn’t _care_.

Rex gave Anakin his loyalty, fought for him, almost died for him more times than he can count. And yet Anakin didn’t care, _never_ cared, not about the clones. Not about anyone but Padmé and Ahsoka, and even that wasn’t enough to save them in the end.

Rex is angry at Anakin for the betrayal. For never being what Rex thought he was. He’s _hurt_ , because he assumed that Anakin saw them the way he said he did, and yet he clearly didn’t.

“Breathe,” Jon says, and his fingers are pressed to Rex's skin, hands still framing his face. “You feel it. You see it. Acknowledge it, understand where it comes from. What can you do to fix it?”

“Not trust him again,” Rex says, and his laugh is ragged, furious. “Never let him control another clone—”

“Rex.” Jon opens his eyes, and the pale blue is ghostly, arresting. Rex stops short, and Jon gives him a faint, crooked smile. “Good. But how will you do that?”

Rex breathes in, breathes out. Closes his eyes, leaning into Jon's touch just a little. “Stop the Sith Lord,” he says. “And whatever he does to Anakin. Keep—keep the chips from being activated, or implanted, or just—make it so the Order 66 won't touch them. Then Palpatine won't have an army. Then they’ll all be safe. And if Anakin wants to kill _younglings_ with my brothers, if he wants to make them into slaves, he’ll have to look them in the face as he does.”

It won't stop him, not at the point that Anakin was at when he marched into the Temple. But maybe it will give him just enough pause for the clones to stop him.

“There,” Jon says, and drops his hands. “You faced it. You understand it now. You know what to do to negate it.” A pause, and he grimaces faintly. “Not everything has an easy answer. Some things just _are_ , and there’s nothing to be done beyond accepting them. But for now—”

“Yeah.” Rex forces himself to pull away, sinks back on his knees and rubs his hands over his face, smearing the half-dried tear tracks. “I can fix this,” he says, and it rattles in his chest, but—less like something hollow and more like the first breath after drowning. “That’s why she sent me back.”

“Yes.” Jon sits up, crossing his legs beneath himself, and studies Rex for a long moment. The tie has slid halfway out of his hair, and there's a crease on his cheek from where he had his cloak bunched up under his head. Rex thinks, for a moment, of the way he feels in the Force, the endless green that gets darker and deeper the longer he looks at it, and feels…

Better, maybe. Less like he’s about to lose control. Which is, Rex can admit, probably the whole point.

And then, belatedly, he realizes that Jon was sleeping against the chair, not even _in_ it, in the middle of the ship. Pauses, processing that for a moment, and then asks incredulously, “Why are you sleeping _here_?”

Jon blinks, like he doesn’t understand the question. “You need the bed,” he says, frowning a little. “And there's only one.”

Rex stares at him. “That bed is big enough for _ten_ ,” he says. “I think we can share.”

Jon goes dull red and ducks his head, the hood of his cloak slipping down to hide his face. “I don’t—I've never.”

There's a long pause as Rex tries to parse that and Jon doesn’t look at him. “Don’t sleep with other people?” Rex finally asks, slow. “As in sex?”

“As in sleeping,” Jon says, just a little defensive. After a moment, he raises his head, pushing his hood back a little, and meets Rex's eyes. “I have…nightmares. And if I'm startled, I don’t know how I’ll react.”

“Well,” Rex says slowly, “I tend to cling, so if you probably wouldn’t hurt me, or get too surprised once I’ve latched on. But if you’d rather not sleep in the same bed, that’s fine. We can switch off—”

“No,” Jon says, careful. “You shouldn’t be sleeping in a chair. After…everything.”

“Neither should you,” Rex points out, and it’s a little startling to see Jon so uncertain. To see him look _human_ , wary and cautious and embarrassed. Maybe it’s the late hour, or the topic, but Jon looks awkward, fingers twisting the edge of his cloak. “We have a long way to go, right? Weeks of sleeping in weird places aren’t going to be that great for you.”

That, at least, makes Jon's mouth curl faintly. “Rex, I’ve never slept in a bed for more than a week in my life,” he says quietly, and when Rex blinks at him, he snorts. Rises, carefully, and then offers Rex his hands. “I don’t go back the Temple on Coruscant, and I don’t stay in towns, for the most part. It’s easier that way.”

“But—the crèche—” Rex starts, only to stop short when Jon shakes his head.

“I was never in the crèche,” he says. “My Master found me on an Outer Rim planet as an infant, and she took me with her to raise me personally.”

Rex hasn’t ever heard of that, but he’s not exactly familiar with all of the traditions of the Jedi Order. “Hands-on training?” he asks, half-joking, but there's no trace of humor on Jon's face. His eyes slide away, and he tugs at his hood again, like he’s resisting the urge to draw it over his face.

“Yes,” he says, but—

It’s almost as if Rex can feel something. Just a touch of foreign emotion, noticeably unfamiliar, that’s all sharp edges and rancid colors. It rises, flares, and then disperses, like scattering water droplets, and Jon takes a breath. He moves—

Rex catches his hand before he can draw it back, and pulls himself to his feet. Keeps his hold, like Jon is going to bolt, and steps forward, right up close to him.

“Jon,” he says, soft. “Take advantage of finally having a bed for more than a week. Come sleep somewhere that’s actually comfortable. You won't hurt me, even if you have a nightmare.”

“I might,” Jon says, almost inaudible, but when Rex tugs on his hand, he doesn’t resist. Just lets Rex draw him back towards the bedroom, and Rex feels a flicker of relief. He used to do this for Kix, once, coaxing him away from his work or dragging him to bed after too many long shifts in the medbay. Never with quite Jon's objections, or the uncertainty that comes with Jon still being more or less a stranger, but—it’s not strange in and of itself. Rex knows how to take care of people. He _likes_ taking care of people.

Some flicker of spite and lingering anger resurfaces, aimed fully at Anakin. Aimed at what Anakin _should_ have been, and what generals like Mace Windu were. The kind of Jedi Rex will be, if he’s going to be one. Not the type of person who would risk everything to save a droid, or only the people he loves personally, but—someone who can see the big picture, and care about _everyone_.

Jon's hand curls around his, grip tight but gentle. “You won't fall,” Jon says softly. “If you think like that, and hold on to that, it will never be a danger.”

One less thing to worry about, Rex thinks wryly. He takes a breath, then sinks back onto the edge of the bed, dragging Jon down with him.

“Come on,” he says, because he’s already said _thank you_ enough that one more time will just be awkward. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“All right,” Jon says, quiet, and strips off his cloak. He carefully slides over to take the far side of the bed, and Rex doesn’t protest, just lies down in his own spot again, staring up at the ceiling in the darkness.

It takes a long, long time for him to fall back asleep, but he listens to Jon's soft breaths as they deepen, the faint shift as he curls in on himself, and thinks of clones joining the Force just like the Jedi. It’s probably—probably like the Mandalorian oversoul, the _manda_. Becoming one with something, consuming it and being consumed, and that means there’s no individual, no trace of the brothers he lost, but—

But his brothers are there nonetheless, in the Force, in the _mando_. And maybe there's little difference between the two, for a clone created for the Jedi. Maybe that’s a comfort, in the end.

Rex rolls over, and breathes, and reaches. Jon doesn’t flinch or stir when Rex carefully, slowly curls close, taking comfort in the heart of him, the beat of his heart, the slivery edge of something extra that Rex could never feel before but now can't overlook.

It’s easier, like that. Like _this_ , with another body so close, and Rex closes his eyes and finally gives in, letting himself go.

“You're sure you want to go alone?” Knol asks, concerned, and Fay can't read her from this distance, but she can see the lines of worry in her face, the way her fur ripples. “I'm grabbing Tae tomorrow and then I should only be a few days out, if you want to find somewhere to hole up and wait.”

“I’ll be fine,” Fay says, a little amused, and draws her hood up over her head. “I've already requested landing clearance from the Kaminoans. It would be a shame to have to turn down their hospitality now.”

Knol scoffs, loud and rude. It makes Fay smile. “Cloners and slavers? Ha. The only hospitality they have is for paying customers.”

“How fortunate, then, that that’s what they believe I am.” Fay reaches out as her ship descends, checking the minds below her, and the hum of so many minds is almost a surprise, brought into focus.

“Fay?” Knol asks, concerned.

“There are millions of them,” Fay says quietly, in explanation. Something like fury curls through her chest, and her fingers tighten around the edge of the console. Millions of men, all created to die, and Fay has been a Jedi for five hundred years but this—this isn't something she’s encountered before. Clones with control chips, Jon had said, and she would trust him with her life. Clones with control chips, bought and paid for by the Sith as a trap for the Jedi, a trap for the Republic as a whole, and very little makes her angrier.

She breathes through it, lets it go. Checks the controls one last time, then rises, touching the edge of the holoprojector. “Fly safe, Knol. Remind Nico not to do anything foolish.”

“I don’t know about that. Tae's most of his common sense.” Knol eyes her, thoughtful, and then snorts. “Don’t _you_ do anything stupid. We need to deactivate those chips.”

“I'm well aware,” Fay says grimly, and straightens her robe, brushes her hair back. There's a Kaminoan approaching the landing pad, a man with a cold, disinterested mind, and it’s the work of half a thought to pull something else he needs to be doing to the forefront, to turn him away with his memory of needing to take her through the facility buried, and Fay smiles.

“Careful there,” Knol drawls. “Smile like that too often and people might stop forgetting you're dangerous.”

“I've never killed,” Fay says mildly. “By many standards, I'm not dangerous at all.”

The incredulous look Knol gives her is mildly flattering. “Only by an idiot’s standards,” she retorts. “Force be with you, Fay.”

“And with you, Knol.” Fay returns. There's a gentle thump as the ship sets down, and she glances towards the ramp, feels the button depress. It lowers quickly, and she heads down it with steady steps. There are no other minds in the hangar, all of them carefully cleared away by the Kaminoans, but Fay steps out into the lashing rain and without hesitation turns towards the largest group of them she can feel. A cafeteria, likely—she can feel that they're eating, though there are no thoughts of pleasure, no celebration of taste. Protein rations, likely, flavorless and nutritious and simple.

A small injustice, but it still makes Fay's mouth thin faintly. She glances at a Kaminoan rounding the corner, and the woman never even glances up, doesn’t hear or see Fay as she crosses the hangar, intent on recalibrating a flight simulator for the pilots. Fay smiles thinly and keeps moving, slipping through the doors as they slide shut. They just miss the hem of her robe as she starts down the wide, sterile corridor, blindingly white and almost featureless, her steps silent on the tile.

Another door opening lets a second Kaminoan through, and Fay brushes her mind as she passes, then ducks through the door, letting it swing closed behind her. Beyond is a long hallway, tall and empty except for a man in a grey uniform, his dark hair shaved almost to nothing. His attention is on the datapad in his hands, head bent as he walks, and Fay smiles. She comes to a halt, letting him approach, and just brushes the surface of his mind. He’s thinking about training courses, about cadets, a trace of worry mixed in with frustration as he works over a problem, and Fay pulls an image from his mind, a squad of children who can't be more than twelve, thought of with fondness. Thoughts of his own training, and Mandalorians, and—

A face Fay knows, if only through holos and by reputation. She pauses, because Jon most certainly didn’t mention this part to Nico, or Nico didn’t pass it on if he did.

Well, she thinks, a touch wry. No wonder they're a trap for the Jedi. Jango Fett is called the Jedi-Killer for a reason, after all.

“Excuse me,” she says, and the clone startles so hard he almost drops his pad. He jerks back, one hand going to his hip like he’s reaching for a blaster, but Fay raises her hands and smiles at him. “Peace. I was simply hoping you had a moment free to guide me.”

Brown eyes widen, and the clone pauses, looking her over. His eyes linger on her sash beneath the fall of her robe, her boots, the Sephi patterns edging her tunic, then slowly, warily slide to her face.

“Who the hell are you?” he asks cautiously.

Fay bows to him, hands folded together in front of her. “Jedi Master Fay,” she says. “May I know your name?”

“CC-8826,” the clone says, and Fay feels it slip, the sideways jar of a world not right. That’s not how he thinks of himself.

“No,” she says gently. “Not a number. Your name. You’ve given yourself one, yes?”

The man freezes, almost stiffening. Takes a half-step back, then freezes like he didn’t mean to, and takes a breath.

“You—yes,” he says after a long moment. “How do you know that?”

Fay raises a brow at him. “I'm a Jedi,” she returns. “I can feel when a name doesn’t fit. If you don’t wish to share yours, that’s fine as well, but a number is…impersonal.”

There's a long, long pause as the clone stares at her. Then, carefully, he tucks his pad under his arm and straightens. “Neyo,” he says curtly. “I'm Neyo.”

“Neyo,” Fay repeats, and smiles at him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Neyo. Am I keeping you from anything?”

“No,” Neyo says slowly, still wary. “You need a guide?”

“The hallways are confusing,” Fay admits without hesitation. “If you would show me towards the barracks I would be grateful.”

“I need to deliver this first,” Neyo says, tapping the pad. “If you want to wait here—”

“If you don’t mind, I would like to walk with you.” Fay checks for any sense of annoyance, but all Neyo is feeling is confusion, disbelief. He doesn’t seem to mind when she falls into step with him, just keeps his silence, and Fay ignores the sidelong glances he keeps slanting at her.

“I didn’t realize a Jedi was coming to Kamino,” Neyo finally says, ten always down.

Fay tilts her head. “It was a last-minute decision, I'm afraid,” she says. “I apologize for the lack of warning.”

“It’s not like _I_ mind,” Neyo says, and there's a trace of well-buried humor in his voice. “The Kaminoans might, though.”

“They're aware I'm here,” Fay says peaceably, which is only kind of an exaggeration. “Tell me, is—”

“Those are the training files?” a curt voice asks, just as a mind full of pitfalls and sharp edges closes in. “Good, let me see—”

Fay turns, and comes face to face with a man who is most definitely not a clone. There's one second of perfect, frozen silence, and then Jango curses and snatches for his blaster, leveling it at her head.

“ _Jedi_ ,” he says, an accusation and a threat all at once, and Fay smiles.

“Jedi-Killer,” she returns.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From now on, this fic will also be getting weekly updates! New chapters will post every Tuesday until the fic is completed.

Jango's mind is all poison and pitfalls, but there's a seed of tarnished brilliance deep beneath the dark surface. It’s enough to stay Fay's hand, to keep her from stripping his thoughts away and leaving him a blank slate even as the trigger on that blaster pulls.

“No—” Neyo stars, sharp, but Fay catches his arm as the bolt spins to the side, pulls him back one neat step to avoid the second, and as Jango lunges she raises a hand.

With a groaning crack, the ceiling panel above them drags loose, swinging down, and Jango isn't nearly fast or limber enough to avoid a sheet of metal the width of the hallway with the full force of Fay's push behind it. There's a loud thump, a clatter as Jango hits the floor, and Fay smiles.

“Would you like to try that again?” she asks politely, and lets go of Neyo's arm even as a sound of rage rises. A flick of her fingers sends the panel back up, and in the gap there are suddenly three more shots, a blur of a body moving. Fay doesn’t even bother looking at the bolts; they scatter with a thought, and she steps around the lash of Jango's vibroblade, turns deftly as he throws a punch at her face. Each motion is vicious, practiced, but—

He’s thinking about his movements, planning, calculating. It’s one of the things that makes Jango Fett such a dangerous opponent, that calculation, but it’s also precisely what makes him no threat at all against Fay.

“Who the hell are you?” Jango demands, and throws an elbow at her. Fay redirects it with a glancing touch, knocking the vibroblade from his hand, then catches his fist before it can even near her face, and raises a brow.

“A Jedi,” she says. “Did you care about more than that, Fett?”

There's a flicker in his mind, a fleeting shadow. It feels like alarm, like wariness, and Fay follows it, drags it out. One quick image of a man in a dark cape, greying and grim. One slower, more careful image of a boy with brown curls and solemn dark eyes.

“I won't hurt your son,” Fay says, and feels Jango go stiff in her grip, the bright-hot wash of twinned fury and alarm like a claxon. She tips her head, studying him, and—

There have been dozens of Mandalorians in her life, across the centuries, enemies and allies alike. Alliances shift, and rulers change, but people are much slower to alter themselves, and cultures like the Mandalorians especially so. Honor, Fay thinks, and _reaches_ —

“Get _out_ of my _head_ ,” Jango snarls, and the barrel of the blaster hits her temple—

And scatters, parts bouncing across the floor of the hallway, before Jango can even pull the trigger.

Fay turns her hand, using her grip on Jango's fist to haul him one step closer, right into her own space. He’s taller than she is, but then, most people are, and she’s had more than enough practice in not looking like she’s craning her neck as she meets his eyes, holds his gaze.

“Where is your honor, Mandalorian?” she asks coolly, and when Jango snarls and lashes out at her, it only takes a thought to redirect nerves, to make muscles seize. Jango hits the ground on his knees with a cry, and Fay leans over him, not letting her grip waver.

“You see to their training,” she says. “You saw to their creation. You teach them Mando’a, the culture, the code. But you would turn them into slaves?”

Jango's fear is the snap of ice breaking beneath its own weight, shot through with magma veins of fury. “I've never made _anyone_ a slave,” he snarls, right in her face. “And they're just _clones_ —”

“By every law your father wrote, by every belief he held, they're your sons, just as much as Boba,” Fay says, and reaches out, tilting his chin up to study his face. “Is your revenge worth the enslavement of millions?”

“I’m not _enslaving_ anyone—”

Truth. It vibrates through him, undercut with belligerent confusion, and Fay cocks her head. “You set a trap for the Jedi, along with Dooku,” she says, and there's no surprise in Jango's head. That’s the truth, too. She can feel the horror ripple through Neyo, though, still standing behind her, and that’s proof enough that the clones themselves don’t know. But—

“The chips,” she says, holding Jango's dark eyes. “How are they any different than an explosive round in a slave’s skull? One could even make the argument that they're worse.”

Jango's eyes widen for a bare fraction of an instant, then narrow sharply. “Get the _hell_ off me, _Jetii_ ,” he growls, and shoves Fay back hard. She lets him, because she can feel the way his thoughts leap forward, the sudden, spinning suspicion that rises like a wave. “Don’t speak about my father like you knew him.”

Fay doesn’t tell him that she did, that she faced Jaster once and found him an honorable man. She just watches as Jango staggers to his feet, and when he aims a deadly look at her, she simply raises a brow. “Are you finished?” she asks.

“Not until you are,” Jango says darkly, and takes a step towards her. “I don’t need some old Jedi crone poking around while I'm trying to see to—”

“Your sons’ training?” Fay finishes for him, perfectly mild. When Jango glares, she just smiles faintly, then turns to give him her back and inclines her head to Neyo. “I apologize for holding you up, Neyo,” she says.

Neyo stares at her for a long moment, then flicks a glance at Jango. Pauses, swallows, and looks back at her, and says, “No problem. Sir, the files.”

Jango gives him and the datapad both a disgusted look, then turns on his heel, stalking away. Fay glances a touch over his thoughts, checking his destination and intentions, and can't help but smile a little at the turmoil of his mind, all the sharp edges suddenly turned outward.

She hadn’t intended to confront him so early, but their meeting was the will of the Force. There's nothing to be done but adjust her plans.

“I'm sorry for annoying him to the point he would take it out on you,” Fay says, and when Neyo gives her an incredulous look, she raises a brow. “Yes?”

“Master—” He pauses, grimaces. “General—”

“Master,” Fay confirms, trying not to show the disgust that ripples down her spine at the other title. Jedi aren’t generals. Even when she was a padawan, they never would have claimed the title. Not for anything.

“Master Fay,” Neyo settles on, seemingly relieved to have that clarified. “You beat the _Original_. Without even drawing your lightsaber.”

“Drawing my lightsaber would be difficult,” Fay says wryly, “seeing as I don’t carry one.”

Neyo stops. He opens his mouth, then closes it again deliberately. Clears his throat, and asks, “You wanted to see the barracks?”

Fay inclines her head. “Or anywhere you tend to gather,” she says, and smiles at him. “I want to meet as many clones as I can.”

“Meet us,” Neyo echoes, like it’s something to be suspicious of. When Fay just raises a brow at him, though, he shakes his head, and says, “There’s a training hall where all the command cadets gather. I’ll introduce you.”

“Thank you,” Fay says. “If you need to run your errand first—”

Neyo glances down at his datapad, then snorts and tucks it under his arm again. “Guess Jango doesn’t need it anymore,” he says sardonically. “This way, Master Fay.”

A little amused, Fay falls into step beside him, glancing back to make sure there are no overly obvious signs of the scuffle. The blaster marks on the pristine white walls she can't do anything about, but the ceiling panel looks stable enough, and she turns back forward, satisfied. Jango is skulking back towards his quarters, the Kaminoans haven’t noticed her diversion yet, and Neyo seems more than happy to lead her deeper into the tangle of corridors.

Neyo's sideways glances get more frequent as he takes her across a narrow bridge above raging seas, then down a long, wide staircase that’s clearly been built with Kaminoan proportions in mind. Fay lets him work up to his question, keeping her peace as she sweeps a mental touch over all the scientists she can reach, all the trainers. Most of them are occupied, their thoughts a steady stream of activity, and she catches a few trainers relaxing, the steady hum of several thousand minds learning. Some of them are ahead, a jumble of what feels like confusion and worry, with an edge of disbelief, and Fay tips her head in interest.

And then, quiet, Neyo asks, “You told the Original we’re a trap for the Jedi?”

It’s a question, regardless of the phrasing. An almost desperate plea for her to say that it was all a lie, or an exaggeration. Fay can feel that clearly, even with her attention fixed across the complex.

Fay blinks, pulling herself back, and glances at him. “Yes,” she says. “Our information says you and your fellow clones were commissioned for the Republic, but the Sith will try to force you to serve them.”

“With chips in our heads,” Neyo says harshly, and his grip tightens on the pad until his knuckles are white. He pauses, takes a breath, and closes his eyes. “And we were made to serve the Republic, but—we were made for the Jedi.”

Purpose, Fay thinks, and something in her chest softens. She comes to a halt outside the room where all that worry and concern is coming from, and when Neyo turns to face her, he’s braced, stiff with it. He reminds her of Mace, Fay thinks. T'ra’s last student is the same sort of driven soul, misunderstood, too brusque for most but caring deeply even so.

“The Jedi will still be yours,” she says gently, reaching out to touch the buzz of his hair. Neyo watches her, eyes narrowed, wary, but—he wants to believe. “Perhaps in a different way than was intended, but the Force brings change through its movement. Nothing ever stays as it was supposed to.”

Neyo breathes out, harsh, and inclines his head. “We’re loyal to the Republic, but we were made for _you_ ,” he says again, and Fay doesn’t want to think about ingrained loyalty and what was done to put it there, but she isn't about to deny another living being’s sense of purpose and being.

“The Jedi will welcome you,” she promises, and doesn’t care who on the High Council she has to shake to make it so. She’s old enough that they have to at least listen to her, and she’ll turn Yoda’s hoverchair upside down with him in it if he tries to give her riddles instead of answers. Her old Master knows better than to get in her way when lives are at risk. And if the Senate gets their hands on a standing army of cloned men, they _will_ be at risk. She knows that in her bones.

Neyo inclines his head, one sharp jerk, and turns away, keying a code into the panel beside the door. “It’s here,” he says gruffly, and as the door slides open, he steps through the gap. Fay follows, folding her hands into her sleeves again, and—

“—karking _hell_ were they _thinking_? Blitz or—or _Gree_ I could have understood—”

“ _Hey_ —”

“—but for CC-5052 and Cody to run off—”

“Bly,” a quiet voice says. “He picked a name. It’s Bly.”

“Great,” a sharper voice mutters. “So he finally developed a personality and then promptly decided to bail. Fantastic.”

“And he took Cody with him? Yeah, right, pull the other one—”

Neyo clears his throat pointedly, and eight bodies come to alertness, turning sharply. Fay studies the identical faces, the different haircuts, the different imprints in the Force, and smiles.

“Gentlemen,” she says, and reaches up, folding her hood back, then bows politely. “Well met. I'm Jedi Master Fay.”

There's a moment of stunned silence, and then a sharp breath. “ _Neyo_?” the clone with red-dyed hair demands.

“She’s here for us,” Neyo says, and there's still a thread of disbelief in his soul, but his voice is steady. “And she just threw Jango around without even _blinking_.”

At that, interest _sparks_ , suddenly twice as attentive, and Fay snorts. “That was the part that struck you?” she asks Neyo, amused.

Neyo's grin is more a flash of teeth than anything. “You turned his blaster into _parts_. _As_ he was trying to shoot you with it. It was pretty kriffing striking.”

Fay laughs, not able to help herself. “I wanted to meet you,” she tells the clones. “Please forgive the intrusion.”

The sharp-voiced clone trades glances with the first one she heard, and they both pause. “Is this…because of Cody and Bly?” the sharp one asks, gruff, and folds his arms over his chest. “Were they going to find you?”

Fay blinks, glancing at Neyo, but there's surprise rising in his chest, realization—

“I’m afraid not,” she says evenly. “Another Jedi directed me here. Master Jon Antilles, though I don’t know how he came by his information.” She looks between them, feels the worry, the buried fear, and asks, “What happened?”

A clone with brown stripes across the sleeve of his uniform grimaces a little. “Two command track cadets,” he says. “Pretty much graduated, like us. They stole an instructor’s ship that was docked for repairs and left. If they come back, the Kaminoans will probably decommission them.”

Decommission. Well. Fay doesn’t have to guess what that means. She closes her eyes, curling her hands into fists beneath the cover of her sleeves, and asks, “May I know your name?”

“Ponds,” he says, sounding surprised. “Why?”

“I would ask anyone’s name. Why not?” Fay counters, and then glances at the others behind him. Looks at Neyo, weighing her options, and—

Well. Knol told her not to do anything stupid. Fay's never followed orders very well.

“Who is in charge of decommissioning clones?” she asks evenly.

“The head scientist for the facility. Nala Se.” The clone with the crossed arms is watching her, narrow, and when Fay looks at him, he huffs. “I'm Wolffe.”

Fay inclines her head in greeting, then pulls her hood up. The head scientist likely knows about the chips. Dooku has to have some way to dig his fingers into the process here.

“Then I need to speak with Nala Se,” she says. “Would one of you be able to show me the way?”

“We will,” one of the men who’s stayed quiet says suddenly. He steps forward, and the two clones standing with him exchange looks, but follow willingly. “We’re from the first batch, so we train the younger clones. We’ve got codes to parts of the building other _vode_ don’t.”

“Colt,” Neyo starts, warning.

“Back off,” Colt tells him flatly. “Rancor Battalion is just the same as you. We were made for the Jedi just like you were.”

Neyo looks displeased, but he closes his mouth, and Fay offers him a smile before she turns to look at Colt and inclines her head.

“Let’s not waste any time,” she says, and doesn’t let her smile waver. “I think Nala Se and I have much to discuss.”

The fact that the Force is quiet and not singing any sort of warning is the only thing that keeps Jon from panicking when he wakes.

There's a heavy weight on his chest, a grip on his side, and Jon's first instinct is to throw it off violently, to roll to the side and out of the way and find cover. He twitches—

And the weight groans, a displeased, aggravated sound that resonates through his chest. Jon freezes, hardly able to bring himself to breathe as Rex rolls over him a little more, knee sliding between Jon's legs, face buried in his throat. His hand is hooked around Jon's hip, other hand tucked up beside Jon's head, and when Jon tries to turn his head he finds fingers buried in his hair, closed tight.

It’s—too much. Too close. Jon can't feel anything but the heat of Rex, the beat of his heart, the curl of his breath. He closes his eyes instinctively, trying not to shiver, trying not to tense, and tells himself that it’s fine. He can't remember the last time anyone was this close, if they ever we. Can't think what to do, or how to react, or how to deal with the brush of Rex's lashes against his throat.

“Rex,” he says, hoarse, and wants to grab Rex, roll him off, but—

But he needed the comfort last night in a way that struck Jon, that pared away every defense he might have had. Rex was hurting, and mourning, and not sure he was allowed to mourn, and Jon would have moved _moons_ for him at that moment, just to make his sadness lift a little.

Rex lost his whole world. He lost everything, and he still chose to fight for the right thing. In the face of that, Jon can bear a little closeness for a while.

Carefully, tentatively, he raises a hand, brushes it over Rex's short hair. Rex stirs, but his breath sounds like relief, and he curls a little closer, turning his face more tightly into the curve of Jon's neck. Not entirely certain what he’s doing, Jon strokes his hair again, about as much motion as he can manage, and breathes out.

It’s—strange. Strange to be so close. He’s had sex with a handful of beings, but—quick things. Encounters in back rooms or alleys, dealing with a need in the only way his life will allow. And this—this isn't sexual, but it’s. It’s _more_ , in a way, because it’s Rex right up against his skin, asleep and dreaming, perfectly trusting.

No one Jon has had sex with before has stayed a night. He’s never slept like this with anyone.

A flicker of azure light catches his eye as he strokes Rex's hair, and he pauses, turning his head just enough to look over. The blue fingerprints on the back of his hand are glowing, and he stops, startled. Lifts his hand—

And the blue goes quiet, fading back to nothing but a smear of color across his skin.

After a long moment, Jon shifts. He hooks an arm around Rex, easing him off just enough that he can slide up against the wall, and Rex huffs. Instantly, Jon freezes, but Rex just grabs him around the waist with a sound of reproach, burying his face in Jon's stomach and then settling there.

Slowly, carefully, Jon lowers his hand to Rex's head again, petting the soft gold of his hair that’s just long enough to start to curl. Rex hums, still not awake, and Jon can feel him slide back into steady sleep. It’s good for him, probably. He’s ragged around the edges, worn, and any rest he can get, Jon won't disturb. At least like this, there's a little less contact to drive him to distraction.

With a breath, Jon curls a hand over the nape of Rex's neck, then reaches up with his free hand and tugs at the neck of his dark undertunic. He already has an idea of what he’s going to see, so it’s little surprise to find the streak of blue that Aayla left over his heart is glowing just like the marks on his hand.

Rex is dreaming. Jon can feel the press of it, the uncertain edge that could lead to a nightmare with just one push. But at the same time, it’s one step from something happier, too, and Jon cups Rex's head in his hands, leans down to rest his forehead on Rex's temple. “Peace,” he murmurs, and lets just the barest threads of influence settle, drawn across the surface of Rex's dream. Instead of a snowy world that’s starting to grow graves, he shifts it, adds green, trees, a breath of rain-damp wind that’s cool but clean. Layers in a sunset through storm clouds, beautiful and breathtaking, a rustle of leaves as the wind picks up. Adds clear water, a river moving slow and stately, and a shallow edge that invites swimming.

“Peace,” he says again, and Rex breathes out, fingers loosening on Jon's knee. The lines in his face ease, and he relaxes, a slowly unspooling thread of wonder replacing the growing tension as he makes his way into the cool green of the forest.

Slowly, carefully, Jon draws back, lifting his head, and—

His exhale doesn’t shake, but it’s very, very close.

That was too easy. Touching a sleeping mind should be harder than touching a waking one, especially unfamiliar. Rex is almost a stranger; Jon's brushed his mind, guided him into meditation, but he isn't nearly familiar enough with the patterns of his mind to have eased Rex's dreams so simply. At most he was expecting to overlay the image of his favorite forest over Rex's snowy wasteland, show him it was a dream, but—

This is almost dream-sharing, and that’s not supposed to happen.

There's no way to check whether the handprint on Rex's chest is glowing the same way Jon's marks are, but Jon suspects it is. There's no other explanation for this connection, and it’s odd, that Aayla sought out him, specifically, even though Dagobah is far from Felucia.

She’s doing something. It _means_ something. Maybe just that Jon is the sort of outsider, the sort of believer who would take on a time traveler dumped in his lap by a spirit without ever hesitating, but—

But it means something. Jon _wants_ it to mean something.

“What are you planning, Aayla?” he asks aloud, but if Aayla is listening, there's no sign.

With a sigh, Jon sinks against the wall, tilting his head back against the metal. One more day to Ilum, and then he’ll take Rex into the caves, leave him to face his fears and find his crystal. Jon built his own lightsaber there, years ago now, and even if some Jedi view the planet with a fearful sort of reverence, it’s always been the source of some of Jon's few happy memories of training. His Master had been so gently admiring of his weapon, so pleased with the green crystal he chose, so proud of him passing such a milestone, and Jon still aches to think about it.

He loves her. He does. And he doesn’t hate, because it's not the Jedi way, but—

He can't bring himself to be near her, ever again, regardless of whether she views him as a failure for it.

In his lap, Rex twists, a frown growing across his features, and one hand flexes, reaches. Automatically, Jon reaches back, sliding his fingers into Rex's and letting him grip. He pictures the forest again, reaffirming it, steadying the dream, and feels Rex's exhale, his quiet sigh. With a faint, rueful smile, Jon strokes his hair again. He has to close his eyes, has to swallow against the flicker of fear that bubbles up.

Jon isn't meant to be a teacher. He chose the harder route, to make Master on his own merits, rather than through teaching a padawan, because he _knows_ himself. He’s a harsh man, with few social skills and no concept of how other people—even other Jedi—interact. After Dark Woman Knighted him, he could have gone back to one of the Temples, could have slipped into the mold of a regular Jedi who doesn’t haunt the Outer Rim like a grim ghost, buy…he hadn’t.

He’s dangerous. Trusting him with any student, with any sort of dependent, is madness. And to trust him with one as valuable as Rex, with the fate of the galaxy on his shoulders and a shattered future in his head?

Whatever Aayla was thinking, Jon can't even begin to imagine. But—

Faith in the Force means putting aside his own conceptions. Believing in the will of the Force means he listens when it moves him, and doesn’t balk because he thinks he knows better. Jon is an instrument it moves across the galaxy, a flawed, Human instrument that can never see the whole picture, but his doubt won't stop him.

There's balance to be found in movement, in doing, that can never be achieved when sitting still. Jon is a creature of movement, even in moments of patience, and Rex's mission is one that needs all the momentum Jon can bring to bear.

He won't let it fail. For Rex's sake, for Aayla's. Even if it means there's a risk of tearing open all the wounds he’s left closed.

“I _will_ help you,” he murmurs, a promise to Rex for all he can't hear it. “You have my word as a Jedi.”

But it feels, deep down in his chest, like it’s the last promise he’s ever going to make.


	10. Chapter 10

Quinlan is hallway through one of the books Tholme sent him, a text on a splinter sect of Jedi who ended up on a bunch of moons in Wild Space and their culture and customs there, when Shmi jerks up out of a sound sleep against his shoulder, her gasp loud and sharp and jarring. He startles so hard he loses his grip on his datapad, and it goes flying out of his hands to clatter across the table and off the other side just as Shmi leaps to her feet.

“Bantha-crinking _poodoo_ brain,” Quinlan hisses, and leans down fish his datapad off the floor. “What’s wrong?”

“We need to stop,” Shmi says. “There are people out there.”

Quinlan bangs his head on the table and yelps. “ _What_?” he demands. “We’re in _hyperspace_.”

Shmi isn't listening to him, though. She’s already headed for the cockpit, where Sugi is slumped back in the pilot’s chair, datapad playing a holo in front of her. As Shmi approaches, she glances up, then raises a brow and pushes herself halfway to upright.

“Lady, I'm pretty sure I made it clear, but this isn't passenger space,” she says, but Shmi ignores her, too, and comes to a sharp halt in front of the console, leaning out to look at the streaked stars of hyperspace. With a scowl, Sugi snaps her datapad off and sits all the way up. “ _Hey_ —”

“We need to come out of hyperspace,” Shmi says, and there's a conviction in her voice that’s almost startling. Halfway out from under the table, Quinlan pauses, watching her carefully, because the last time he heard someone use that tone, it was T'ra, who has a connection to the Force most beings don’t. “Right now.”

Sugi gives her an incredulous look, then turns to look at Quinlan. “There’s nothing out here,” she says. “We’re just past the Rishi Maze, it’s _empty_.”

Quinlan studies Shmi's face for a moment, think of Anakin's abilities. “Do it,” he says, pulling himself to his feet. “Shmi, you're sure?”

“Very,” Shmi says, and as the ship’s engines lose their high hum and the galaxy becomes visible around them, she leans forward, touches a point on the viewscreen, and says, “There. Those are the ones who need our help.”

Quinlan squints as he comes up behind her, trying to see what she does. When he flicks a glance at Sugi, Sugi raises her hands and says, “Hey, I'm just a bounty hunter. You Jedi are running the show here.”

Quinlan doesn’t bother to correct her use of the plural. “Scans?” he asks.

Sugi checks the readouts, then raises a brow. “Looks like there’s a ship out there,” she says. “But it’s not broadcasting any signals, and it looks like it’s running on emergency power at best.”

In need of help, clearly. Quinlan casts a look at Shmi, who meets his eyes with a trace of chagrin that’s mostly hidden by defiance, and snorts. “Looks like we found our people,” he says. “Can you dock even if they’re on emergency systems?”

“Probably.” Sugi starts flipping switches, frowning faintly as she steers them closer. It takes a solid minute, but Quinlan finally catches a glimpse of the ship, small and sleek and dead in the water. It’s a cruiser, but not a model he recognizes.

Clearly, though, he just hasn’t been running in the right circles, because Sugi takes one look at it and curses. “What the kriff is _Bric_ doing out here?” she demands. “I thought the bastard got a top-secret job somewhere and fell off the map ten years ago.”

“Bounty hunter?” Quinlan asks, concerned. Shmi dragging them out of hyperspace for a _bounty hunter_ seems odd, but—she did say _people_ need their help. Maybe it’s whoever Bric caught.

“Nasty bastard,” is Sugi’s verdict. She wrinkles her nose, then leans over, pulling a long carbine rifle up from beside her seat. Another second of scrounging gives her three vibroblades, and she shoves them into sheathes, checks her blaster pistol, and then gives Quinlan a lazy smile. “Out of the goodness of my heart, I'm going to come with you and help these poor stranded souls.”

Quinlan snorts, but he doesn’t bother arguing. “No shooting bystanders to get to him,” he warns, and Sugi huffs.

“You Jedi think every bounty hunter is just a pirate in training,” she says disgustedly.

“No, I just know better than to underestimate an angry Zabrak,” Quinlan retorts, and Sugi pauses, then laughs.

“All right, Vos,” she allows. “You can come.” Casting a glance at Shmi, she raises a brow. “Watch my ship?”

Shmi hesitates, looking torn, but after a moment her mouth firms, and she nods. “Be careful,” she says quietly.

Sugi smirks at her. “Bric’s the one who should be careful, after the last job he pulled with me,” she says. “Watch the air pressure, that seal’s been known to spring a leak if the ships shift too much.”

“I will,” Shmi promises, and sinks down in the copilot’s chair as Sugi straightens, tipping her head at Quinlan.

“Vos. I hope you know I wouldn’t do this for just any employer.”

“I thought you didn’t want anyone knowing you worked for Jedi,” Quinlan retorts, but he leads the way to the lower deck. There's a hatch in the side, and Sugi hauls a creaky panel down, then punches in a code.

“I don’t,” she says over her shoulder. “But I’d rather let it get out than watch Bric sit on bounties that don’t deserve it.”

There's a shudder and a grating of metal as the ship docks, and Quinlan catches his balance with a gloved hand on the wall, careful not to make skin contact. Pauses for a moment, then draws his hood up over his head, and says, “Nice to meet an honorable mercenary once in a while.”

Sugi’s smirk is a sharp thing. “Sign me up for the True Mandalorians,” she drawls, and checks the display, then hits a button. The hatch opens on a rush of stale air, and she wrinkles her nose. “Air filters must not be working right.”

Quinlan puts a hand in front of her before she can start across the docking line. “Let me?” he asks, and she pauses, studying him before a moment before she shrugs.

“Bric likes to aim for the knees,” she warns, and steps aside to let him go first.

Quinlan snorts. “That’s the kind of thing a padawan could deal with,” he says, but keeps a hand close to his lightsaber as he starts down the narrow passage. The door on the other side is open, and Quinlan shoves it wide, then steps out into the darkness of a ship lit only with emergency lights.

“Someone order a rescue?” he calls, pitched to carry. There's silence, and he turns—

Right into the barrel of a blaster that’s aimed at his chest.

“Yeah, but not pirates,” the armored man on the other side of it says. Mandalorian armor, but—not made for this man, Quinlan thinks, eyeing him. It doesn’t fit right. There are gaps where there shouldn’t be, and it’s meant for someone broader than him, maybe a bit shorter. Stolen, likely, and Quinlan _knows_ Mandalorians; the guy who got robbed is probably dead.

Careful, deliberate, Quinlan takes a step back, making it deliberate, blocking the view of the docking passage with his body. “No pirates here,” he says, voice pitched so that Sugi will hear it. “Noticed your ship was dead in the water and thought that checking for survivors was the best thing to do.”

“Yeah?” the bounty hunter challenges. “And how’d you notice that?”

There's another mind on the ship, another body. Closing in, quiet, careful in the shadows. Quinlan cocks his head, then grins. “Magic,” he says cockily, and lunges, low and fast. From behind him, there's a sound of alarm, but in the same instant Sugi launches herself out of the passage, slamming into the second man as he grabs for Quinlan, and they go tumbling across the deck.

Quinlan hits the man in armor at the knees, throws his body weight sideways into him as he fouls his feet and catches the blaster as it swings for his head. Ducks, then rises hard, and slams into the man, bearing him to the ground in a clatter of ill-fitting armor. Grabbing the vibroblade from his boot, Quinlan slams the hilt into the man’s helmet, feels a surge of motion, and lets the man roll them. He’s good, practiced, but Quinlan's been in a hell of a lot of back-alley fights over the years and he knows the tricks. He takes the momentum, gets a knee between the bounty hunter’s legs, and keeps them going when the man tries to pin him. Twists hard, landing the bounty hunter on his back, and shoves the vibroblade up under his chin in one hard motion.

The man freezes, head tilted back, not even breathing. Beneath the helmet, Quinlan can see the way his eyes flicker, from Quinlan to the vibroblade like he’s weighing odds, and then over towards a snarl that sounds like a pissed-off cat. Right on the heels of it, there's a loud thud, a curse, a _growl_.

“Sugi?” Quinlan asks, not willing to take his eyes off his own opponent.

“Got him,” Sugi says grimly. “Neither one of them is Bric. He’s a Siniteen.”

Quinlan raises a brow, then reaches up, keeping his blade tight beneath the armored man’s chin. Deftly, he gets his fingers under the helmet, then pulls, and it comes off easily, just as ill-fitting as the rest of the armor.

Dark eyes fix Quinlan with a glare, and the man beneath spits something in Mando’a.

“Insult my mother like that again and we’re going to have problems,” Quinlan warns him, and frowns. It’s…Jango Fett. But too young. Jango's middle-aged for a Human, and this guy is young twenties at _best_. The scar that curves around his left eye is one Quinlan would recognize, too—it’s not exactly forgettable. Jango _definitely_ didn’t have that scar the last time he tried to put a blaster bolt through Quinlan's neck, and it wasn’t _that_ long ago.

There's a sharp breath, and then Sugi says, “Vos. Look.”

That tone doesn’t brook any arguments, so Quinlan risks a glance over and instantly goes still.

The same face is glaring at Sugi from where she’s sprawled on top of him. Just like Jango, but younger, and this version has a gold tattoo like a bright smear of gold across one cheek, and—

He turns his head, and blue catches the light.

“Those tattoos,” Quinlan demands, and hauls his captive up with him, marching him one step closer so he can get a clearer look at the bright azure dots on the other man’s cheek, like stray fingerprints from something burning blue. “How the _hell_ did you get those?”

The man blinks, and—clone, he _has_ to be a clone, because either that’s the explanation or Jango's running around with identical twin sons and no one’s noticed before now. He trades looks with the armored clone, then shoves at Sugi, and she lets him up warily, rising to her feet but keeping her blaster trained on him as he gets up.

“What’s it to you?” the clone challenges, defensive.

“Bly—” Quinlan's captive starts.

“Shut up, Cody,” Bly retorts, meeting Quinlan's eyes defiantly. “Well?”

For a long moment, Quinlan weighs his options, the risks, but—if these two have anything to do with Aayla, he _needs_ to know. Two clones out here, at least one marked by her, after she sent Quinlan towards a planet full of cloners—it can't be a coincidence.

Deliberately, Quinlan reaches up, then pulls back one of the sleeves of his robe, and Bly's eyes go wide.

“You saw her, too?” he demands, and there's a thread of something desperate and hopeful in his voice. “She’s been other places?”

“ _She_ is my friend,” Quinlan retorts. “Her name’s Aayla, and I'm looking for her. How the hell did _you_ meet her?”

The clones exchange glances, and Bly swallows. “She was on Kamino,” he says. “I had—I had dreams about her, and I kept seeing her everywhere. She told me she was on Metellos, so—”

Metellos. They had a mission there once, a year before she was Knighted. Aayla had loved the planet, and loved the Force connection there. It doesn’t exactly make _sense_ that she would go there, but it’s not entirely unreasonable, either. And no one who didn’t know her personally would realize that.

“Bantha shit,” Quinlan mutters, and shoves Cody a step away from him. “You're sure it was Metellos?”

“’Course,” Bly says, and reaches up, touching the marks like they're a comfort. Or maybe like he can't quite believe they're real. “She was—she drew the words in the air. I couldn’t hear her when she said it, like she was trapped in glass.”

A chill slides down Quinlan's spine, and he has to catch his breath. Trapped, somehow. Trapped in glass, held by whatever took her over, and Quinlan has no idea, has never heard of anything like this in any part of the Archives, but—he needs to find Aayla. He needs to find her and _get her back._

“Sugi,” he says.

“Metellos, got it,” Sugi agrees, and holsters her blaster. “You're paying for our resupply stop, Vos.”

“As long as it’s not Nar Shaddaa,” Quinlan says. “I had a tussle with some would-be port officials last time I was there.”

Sugi snorts. “This is why you're the only one of your kind I’ll do business with, Vos,” she says, amused, and eyes Cody and Bly for a long moment. “Want to tell me why you have Bric’s ship, gentlemen?”

Cody tucks his helmet under his arm, looking unrepentant. “It was the fastest one,” he says, and then grimaces. “Or so we thought.”

“You stole it,” Quinlan translates, and smirks at the defiant look Cody gives him. “Oh, no, I don’t care, I just think it takes balls. Nice.”

Humor flickers quick and sharp over Cody's face, even as Bly rolls his eyes. “We’re coming with you,” is all he says, though.

Sugi clears her throat, and Quinlan snorts. “Ask the lady,” he says. “She’s the captain here. But I’ll pay your way, if that’s the issue.”

“Anyone who pisses off Bric is worth a rescue in my book,” Sugi drawls. “But it’s nice to be asked.”

“We’re coming, _thank you_ ,” Cody amends, unimpressed, and Quinlan laughs.

“I think I like you,” he says, grinning. “Come on, Sugi. He said thank you.”

Sugi rolls her eyes, like Quinlan can't feel the bite of her humor beneath her skin. She doesn’t mind the clones, either. “I suppose. Back to my ship, let’s move. Grab anything you need, and then I'm jettisoning this hunk of trash.”

“I’ll grab the gear,” Bly says, and vanishes up to the main deck with a few quick steps up the ladder.

“Ten minutes,” Sugi warns, and then she’s gone too, heading back up the passage to her ship.

In the silence, Cody studies Quinlan for a long moment, then looks away, grimaces. "Any idea why your friend would snatch a clone off Kamino?” he asks, and starts stripping off the stolen armor.

Quinlan pauses, a little surprised. “Aayla took a clone?” he asks, frowning. Maybe Bly isn't the only reason she was focused on Kamino.

Cody's exhale is harsh. “My best friend,” he says. “Rex. A captain. We were leaving training and she just—appeared out of nowhere and grabbed him. And she said— _you can't wake up here, he’s waiting and so are you_.”

That’s…about how Aayla sounded when she disappeared from Tatooine. Cryptic, or maybe just scattered. Quinlan folds his arms over his chest, frowning, and rubs his thumb against the burn-slick blue that Aayla marked him with. “I have no idea,” he says after a moment. “Aayla's never—something _possessed_ her, I think. She’s still herself, but there's a hell of a lot more, too.”

“Great,” Cody mutters, fighting with a strap on the pauldron. “So Rex is _gone_ and she’s wandering around like a living supernova making sure everyone knows she’s here, but she can't be bothered to—oh, _heck_ —”

“Hey,” Quinlan says, and catches his hand, stilling the fumbling fingers in the oversized gauntlet. “If you break it, it’ll never come off. Let me.”

Cody pauses, closing his eyes, and breathes out. He drops his hand and nods curtly, but his voice is mostly even when he says, “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Quinlan says easily, teasing the buckle out of place. “You stole this too, right?”

Cody huffs. “Bric’s an instructor on Kamino,” he says. “We had to sneak into the hangar to get to his ship, so I just…liberated another instructor’s armor.”

“Borrowed without permission or intent to return?” Quinlan jokes, and undoes the other buckle, then crouches down to get the next set over Cody's ribs.

“I would have returned it eventually. Probably,” Cody says without shame. “Finding Rex is more important.”

Quinlan laughs a little. “I like your style,” he says, and when Cody glances down at him, one brow rising, he makes a point to lean in just a little and give Cody a wink, breath _almost_ ghosting over his codpiece.

Cody's ears go red, but he raises a brow at Quinlan and asks, “Yeah? Enough to do something about it?”

Giving him a wolfish grin, Quinlan deftly undoes his greaves and then sits back on his heels. “Guess you should get me alone so we can find out.”

Cody snorts quietly, stripping off his gauntlets and offering Quinlan a hand. “I'm Cody,” he says.

“Quinlan,” Quinlan returns, and takes his hand, letting Cody pull him to his feet. “Nice to meet you, Cody.”

“Thanks for the save,” Cody says more quietly, even as he starts to strip off the remaining armor. “When the ship went dead, I thought we were going to die out here.”

“You’ll have to thank Shmi,” Quinlan says. “She’s back on the ship, but she’s the reason we stopped. Good thing, too. We were headed for Kamino.”

“Looking for Aayla?” Cody asks, and when Quinlan nods, he grimaces. “I saw her, but—only for a second. And it was like she didn’t see me at all. Just Rex.”

Which means she was there specifically to grab him. Quinlan pulls a face, running a hand over his hair, and says, “Aayla usually is the kindest person I know. She wouldn’t just snatch him up for no reason.”

“Yeah, well, she didn’t exactly _tell_ me her reason,” Cody says, but he sighs. “I _need_ to find him.”

“We will,” Quinlan says, and it’s a promise. “I feel the same way about Aayla. Whatever has them—it’s not something we can understand.”

Cody's smile is crooked and rueful. “If Rex turns up blue and glowing I’ll _know_ I'm going crazy,” he says.

Quinlan snorts. “How do you think I feel? I practically raised Aayla. Her turning into a supernova with lekku is a little alarming.”

Cody flicks a glance at the marks on his arms. “But you tried to grab her anyway.”

“Like you did with Rex,” Quinlan challenges, and he knows it’s true without having to guess. There's no way Cody, this devoted to his friend, didn’t try to save him.

“For all the good it did,” Cody mutters, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “I—”

Whatever he’s about to say is interrupted by the thump of boots down the ladder, and Bly appears a moment later, landing lightly and tossing a pack at Cody. “Let’s go,” he says curtly, already turning for the other ship.

Cody very obviously rolls his eyes at Bly's back, then flicks a glance at Quinlan. “After you.”

“Trying to get me alone already?” Quinlan teases, but he ducks into the passage and makes his way back to Sugi’s ship, watching as Cody seals Bric’s cruiser and then follows.

“Is it working?” Cody retorts, and waits as Quinlan seals the hatch on their side.

Quinlan opens his mouth to answer, but before he can, Sugi calls from above, “I'm disengaging. Vos, get up here and help me find a resupply planet where you haven’t pissed off the authorities.”

“That might be hard. How far are you willing to go?” Quinlan calls back, and grins at her scoff. Glances at Cody with a crooked smirk, and says more quietly, “Apparently not.”

“I’ll just have to try harder,” Cody says, unperturbed. He starts up the ladder, and—

Well. The flirting’s probably invitation enough to steal a look. That black undersuit is _tight_ , and as nice as Quinlan has always found Jango's ass, he’s pretty sure Cody's is nicer.

She probably doesn’t need the lightsaber rifle.

Jocasta pauses with her hands on the ties of her bag, giving the case in front of her one more look. The rifle gleams under the light of the Archives, a sleek, pretty thing for all it’s incredibly deadly, and she glances down at her pack, then up at the rifle again, considering.

It really is a lovely weapon, for all it’s a remnant of a bygone age. And it’s well-maintained—Jocasta sees to its maintenance herself. Using it is a pain, though, because it requires a trip to Ilum and the construction of a new lightsaber in the aftermath. It’s hard to know if such a thing is worth it, really, especially at the start of a mission.

“Going on a mission, Master Nu?” a voice asks behind her, startled, and Jocasta pulls her eyes from the case and turns, finding a familiar figure approaching.

“Master Kenobi,” she offers politely, and eyes the sulking figure behind him. Obi-Wan’s padawan looks like he just got shaken by the ear, but mulishly unrepentant, as well.

Sometimes, Jocasta reflects, she’s very glad the Archives fill enough of her time that taking on a padawan would be unproductive. Teenagers are something she sees _more_ than enough of on a daily basis, and she’s never had much patience for whining.

Obi-Wan comes to a halt a polite distance from her, brows rising as he takes in her traveling cloak, her bag, the fact that her usual dress and soft shoes have been exchanged for a much more practical tunic and pants and tall boots. “I thought you tended to leave missions outside the Temple to the junior archivists,” he says, careful. Whatever else Qui-Gon did, he at least managed to teach the boy manners. “Is there a problem, Master Nu?”

“There won't be shortly,” Jocasta says, and means it with every fiber of her being. Quinlan's news of someone tampering with the Archive was enough to set her blood to boiling, especially since there could only be one culprit, and she found his slimy fingerprints all over her precious systems. Anger isn't the Jedi way, but—well. Righteously channeled indignation can be, and she’s feeling that in _spades_.

She unlocks the case and takes the rifle. Better safe than sorry and all that rot.

Deftly, practiced, she slings the rifle over her back, settling the strap, and primly picks up her pack, shouldering that as well. When she turns, Obi-Wan is staring at her, eyes wide, and even his sulky apprentice looks caught off guard.

“Is that a _rifle_?” Anakin demands.

“A lightsaber rifle,” Jocasta says briskly. “Close your mouth, Obi-Wan, you'll breathe in gnats.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes flicker from the rifle to her face and back to the rifle. “In _your_ Archives, Master Nu? Perish the thought.”

He’s a good boy. Qui-Gon was a disaster who destroyed books, and he didn’t deserve such a tidy padawan. Jocasta huffs, folding her hands into her sleeves, and asks, “Was there something you needed, Obi-Wan?”

Quickly, Obi-Wan raises his hands. “I wouldn’t want to hold you up, Master Nu. I was just hoping to consult with you about whether you could use another set of hands for transcribing manuscripts. Or manual labor. Or scrubbing floors.”

Obi-Wan is smiling. His padawan most definitely is not.

Jocasta raises a brow, looking between them. “And what spurred this gracious offer of assistance?” she asks dryly.

“A crashed speeder,” Obi-Wan says. “And then a crashed cruiser. _And_ a crashed hoverbike.”

“That last one wasn’t my fault, Master!” Anakin protests. “ _She_ ran into _me_!”

“Because you jumped in front of her,” Obi-Wan says mildly. “Anakin, you are a good Jedi, but you must be more _careful_.”

“She was a bounty hunter,” Anakin mutters. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

From the pained look on Obi-Wan’s face, this isn't the first time they’ve had this conversation. Jocasta eyes him, then Anakin, and—children need to be kept occupied. Clever children _especially_ so. And Anakin is _exceptionally_ clever, so it stands to reason that he needs to stay busier than most.

“Do you have another mission planned in the near future, Master Kenobi?” she asks, and Obi-Wan blinks at her.

“No,” he says cautiously. “Master Windu requested my assistance with several delicate negotiations here in the Temple. I'm likely to be caught up in them for the rest of the month.”

“Perfect,” Jocasta says, steps past him to face Anakin, who quickly hauls himself up straight as she comes to a stop in front of him. He shifts a little under her stare, clearly awkward, but…he’ll do.

“I could use the assistance of someone good with computers,” she says. “If the two of you agree, Padawan Skywalker can accompany me on my trip to deal with a problem that’s cropped up in the Archives.”

“Accompany you?” Anakin says, bewildered. He flicks a glance at her, then at Obi-Wan, and asks with mild horror, “To be a _librarian_?”

Obi-Wan sighs, splaying a hand over his face, and Jocasta snorts. “Oh yes,” she says, bland. “The rifle is to deal with troublesome books, of course. They do fight back so hard.”

Anakin ducks his head, chagrined. “Sorry, Master Nu.”

Jocasta eyes the top of his head, that ugly haircut she can't believe Qui-Gon managed to inflict on another generation of padawans without even being present for it. “That’s quite all right, padawan. I'm not going as a librarian, I'm going as the Master Archivist. Someone tampered with the Archives, and I intend to hunt down the culprit and put a stop to their actions.”

“Oh,” Obi-Wan says, and flicks a glance at Anakin. “Anakin, it’s a good opportunity to learn more about how other Jedi operate. Master Nu is infam—er. Famous for her abilities.”

She’s not old or deaf enough to have missed that slip of the tongue. Jocasta gives Obi-Wan a narrow look, and then says, “I have a ship waiting on the landing platform, Padawan Skywalker. Make your choice. You may stay here and translate manuscripts, or you may accompany me to the Outer Rim.”

“I’ll accompany you, Master Nu,” Anakin says instantly, and at Obi-Wan’s raised brow, adds quickly, “Thank you for the opportunity.”

“Of course,” Jocasta says, amused. “Retrieve your things and meet me on the platform. Quickly.”

Anakin bows, then turns and bolts, and it’s easy to feel his relief at getting out of translation duty. It makes Jocasta snort, and she glances at Obi-Wan’s frown and says, “I’ll mind him well, you have my word.”

Obi-Wan pauses, like he’s wrestling with how to phrase something. Finally, carefully, he says, “Master Nu, with all due respect, I have no doubt about that. I'm just…concerned that Anakin make take to your methods _too_ well.”

He’s not nearly as cute as he thinks he is. “Then he’ll make a fine archivist, I'm sure,” Jocasta says, a warning, and turns on her heel, readjusts the rifle, and marches towards the lift. She has a rat to smoke from its hole, and several pointed things to say to a former friend who thinks he can _erase data_ from _her Archives_.

If Dooku comes out of their conversation sporting several new breathing holes, well. Jocasta, for one, won't be losing any sleep over it.


	11. Chapter 11

“Just remember to keep your head down, all right?” Knol says, and her mind from the front of the ship is a stream of thoughts and calculations and assessments that Tae could lose himself in if he wasn’t careful. It’s so different from Nico that it’s always jarring, but given that his other option for an anchor out here is Fay, Knol is definitely the better choice.

Tae's never tried to anchor himself to Fay's mind. He’s absolutely sure he doesn’t want to.

“I'm not an _initiate_ ,” Tae reminds her pointedly, catching hold of the edge of the small table as the ship shudders. In the pilot’s seat, Knol curses, and Tae can't help but skim the dialect she’s using, touching its origins, its edges. That one thought leads to ten thousand others, a gilt web that’s vast and neat for all it looks tangled, and Tae breathes in, breathes out, and forces himself not to look.

Nico's mind is quiet enough that he’s not going to get lost, even if he lets himself relax. Anchoring with anyone else feels a little like trying to tread water in a raging river, though.

“Of _course_ Fay got the nice weather to land in,” Knol mutters. “Hang on, Tae, this might get bumpy.”

“Don’t you mean bumpi _er_?” Tae asks, but grabs one of the straps on the wall.

Knol laughs, and ripples through Tae, warm and bright like sparks from a campfire. “That too,” she agrees, and they drop into a bank of clouds that makes the ship judder unnervingly. Tae catches himself, lifting his head—

_There you are_ , Fay says, just one little corner of something vast and _old_ that’s politely held back. It still makes Tae's breath catch, and he carefully touches Knol's mind, sinks the edges of himself into it so that Fay won't swallow him whole, even by accident.

_Master Fay_ , he returns, and it’s almost impossible to tell what she’s feeling, because the slant of her mind is so foreign. Tae has to wonder if this is how normal people feel about other people’s minds all the time. _Is everything all right_?

_Everything is quite fine,_ Fay tells him, and a moment later an image of the facility below drops into Tae's mind. _I will keep the Kaminoans away from the landing pad. There are so many other things to occupy their time, after all._

Fay's flare for redirecting thoughts is something Tae is _going_ to ask her to teach him, one of these days. Nico is good at it, but—Fay is better _. Master Knol is already cursing, so that’s probably better_.

It’s unspeakably strange not to be able to identify the ripple of Fay's emotion, hidden beneath the vastness of her being. Tae _thinks_ that what he feels is amusement, but there's no way to say for certain. _Then I will keep them_ well _away from her. Thank you, padawan._

_Of course, Master Fay_ , Tae returns politely, and doesn’t let himself slump in relief when Fay's presence retreats. Dealing with her in person is one thing, but…she’s a _lot_.

Still, clearly she’s not in any kind of distress, and she’s not upset, so that’s likely a good sign. Tae judges the lurch of the ship for a moment, then ducks forward, grabbing the edge of the pilot’s chair and then the edge of the control panel as he drags himself into the open seat. Knol is still fighting with the controls as they descend through the storm, and Tae reaches out, gives her an image of the landing pad below that Fay shared.

“Master Fay is keeping the Kaminoans away from us,” he says. “I think she wants you to get a look at things without their influence.”

Knol grunts, jerking hard on the yoke as lightning ripples in front of them. “Good. People like them might as well be slavers, even if they dress up the words they use. They're lucky your uncle can see the big picture and the target Dooku painted on his own ass, or he’d be screeching in here like a nexu with its balls caught in a trap.”

Tae smothers his grin. He _likes_ Knol, even if Nico mutters about bad influences whenever she’s around. “Dooku makes him testy,” he says, which is such an understatement that Knol pulls her eyes away from the viewscreen for an instant to give him an incredulous look, and Tae tries very hard not to laugh.

“You’ve been spending too much time with Antilles,” Knol accuses with a huff, and an instant later the ship drops through the last layer of clouds, almost at sea level. With a curse, Knol levels them out, the whole ship jerking, and sends them straight at the landing pad that rises from the sea.

“Master Antilles is a very skilled Jedi,” Tae says diplomatically.

“He’s the weirdest Jedi in the Order and that’s saying a hell of a lot,” Knol says bluntly, but Tae can feel her fondness, the edge of humor and regret. “If I’d found him twenty years earlier, even though I don’t take padawans…”

She doesn’t finish that thought, but she doesn’t have to. Tae can feel exactly where it goes. He doesn’t comment, though, lets her statement stand, and looks to the landing pad instead.

“There are so many people here,” he says quietly, able to feel the weight of so many minds clearly. It’s like standing on Coruscant, and Tae isn't used to the press.

“All right there?” Knol asks in concern, glancing over at him as the ship settles with a rumble of engines. “If you need to go deeper—”

“I'm all right,” Tae says quickly. “There are just…a lot of people.”

The tilt of Knol's head is thoughtful. “Fay said the same thing,” she offers, and glances at the bright lights of the facility in front of them. “Let me know if you need us to find a dark corner and meditate. I'm not about to object. Kaminoans build specifically to kark up Bothan eyes or something.”

“I will,” Tae promises, and waits as she shuts down the engines and secures the ship. When she flips the hood of her robe up, he does the same, and falls in behind her as she descends the ramp.

Outside, the storm is wild, the rain so thick that Tae can hardly see through it well enough to follow the sweep of Knol's cloak towards the facility’s lights, and he grimaces a little to himself, pulling his robes more tightly around his shoulders. It’s _cold_ , to the point he’s surprised it’s not snowing, and after the swamp world he and Nico were just on, it’s jarring.

“Anyone nearby?” Knol asks over the drumming beat of the rain, and Tae pauses, sweeping a look around the platform as he lets his thoughts slip out.

“Two Humans in the hangar,” he says. “I think…one’s asleep, but the other is about to wake him up.” There's a flare of glee, a shock, indignant fury, and Tae winces. “He woke him up.”

Knol snorts. “Like being in the crèche again, huh?” she says, amused, and turns towards a side door instead. “Fay tell you where she wants to meet?”

“No, sorry, Master.” Tae turns his head, pretending not to see the _very_ illegal slicer she pulls out of her pocket and attaches to the keypad on the door. “She just gave me the image of the facility.”

With a grunt, Knol puts her shoulder to the heavy door and shoves it open. “Don’t be sorry, Fay's like that. She’s got her own plan and she’ll tell us when she needs us.” She tucks the slicer back into her sleeve, then holds the door as Tae ducks through and lets it fall shut behind him again. “Kriff. Whoever decorated needs to be dunked in the ocean a few hundred times.”

Tae squints a little against the blinding white. “It could use more colors,” he says diplomatically, and Knol scoffs loudly.

“ _More_?” she asks incredulously, and shoves a thought at him. Tae blinks, takes her image of the hallway as seen through Bothan eyes, and then promptly winces.

“Oh,” he says. “I didn’t realize there were that many shades of violet.”

“And that’s just what _I_ can see,” Knol mutters, fur rippling. “These bastards are having too much fun with the infrared spectrum. Which corridor has fewer people?”

Tae reaches out, trying not to actively slip into any of the minds he can feel, but—holding himself back is difficult. Easier when Nico's thoughts are beside him, a calm ocean curling over a warm shore. He can focus on the heat and twist of Knol's, too. It just takes some adjustment. “Left,” he says after a moment. “But straight ahead, I can feel the most scientists.”

Knol scuffs a hand over his hair, almost pulling it out of its stubby ponytail. “I forgot just how useful you are to have around, kid,” she says cheerfully, and Tae can't help but laugh, ducking to get away from her hand. “Makes me want to steal you from your uncle.”

“Depending on how many grey hairs he says I'm giving him, Uncle Nico might not object,” Tae says, grinning. “So maybe do it on a bad day.”

Knol laughs. “We’ll coordinate,” she promises cheerfully, and then pauses, her gaze flickering from the left-hand hall to the one straight ahead. Tae can feel her indecision, the flicker of consternation as she tries to pick which route to take. There's no hint in the Force, no whisper of intuition that Tae can sense, though, and he glances at Knol, then at the hallways.

“I can take one,” he says. “You're looking for proof, right?”

Knol is silent for a moment, studying him as her fur ripples. “Yes,” she finally says. “And a cure. Fay's good, but several million patients will stress even her out. I’d like to figure out how they’re implanting the chips, too.”

“Then we should split up,” Tae says logically, and it’s the reasonable option. “I can read the scientists’ minds—”

“Hold it right there, Tae,” Knol interrupts. “Nico was _very_ clear about you not doing anything reckless.”

That’s the most ridiculous argument Tae has ever heard, and he gives her an unimpressed look. Nico is calm and composed and _absolutely_ the most reckless person Tae has ever met. If he gave Knol _any_ instructions about stopping Tae from following his example, he’s the biggest hypocrite in the galaxy.

Knol must read that on his face, because she sighs and raises her hands in surrender. “Save the _do as I say not as I do_ lecture for Nico, not me, kid. And if you're going _anywhere_ by yourself, it’s not into the middle of a bunch of amoral scientists being paid by the Sith.”

That’s an acceptable compromise, so Tae nods. “Left, then,” he says, and when Knol groans he grins at her. “Still want to steal me from my uncle?”

“More with every word,” Knol promises, and reaches out, dragging his hood up over his head and then down over his eyes. She ignores Tae's sound of protest, and asks, “You know that trick your uncle pulls? Bending light?”

Tae nods, because he does, if only when he’s standing still. Nico manages while moving, which is magnitudes more difficult, but Tae's version is decent enough for sneaking, especially when he usually has forewarning that people are coming. “And I know how to redirect people,” he says. He might not be anywhere near as skilled as Fay, but Nico knows similar tricks, and he’s been teaching Tae.

“Your uncle does love his mind tricks,” Knol allows, and gives him a narrow look, then sighs dramatically. “All right, fine, but find me if anything happens. Or find a place to hide and call me. I don’t like the idea of you running around without your anchor nearby.”

“I can control myself,” Tae says, and is mostly positive that it’s true, at least where his telepathy is concerned. There _are_ a lot of people here, but Knol is the most familiar mind, and he should just reach out for her automatically.

Knol's next sigh is far less dramatic, more resigned. “It’s not you that I don’t trust, Tae, it’s the situation. Too blasted many moving parts.”

“Focus on the scientists and whatever they're doing,” Tae suggests. “Less parts that way. I’ll be all right.”

“You’d better be.” Knol tips her head, then says, “Find Fay, when you're done. I'm sure she’ll keep an eye on both of us, so just give her a nudge.”

“I will,” Tae promises, and the knowledge that someone as powerful and wise as Fay is going to be so close at hand eases a little of the tension of splitting up. “Be careful, Master Knol.”

Knol huffs, thumping him lightly in the shoulder, and her thoughts are a warm tide curling over him. “Always. Eyes open.” She turns away with a flare of robes, heading straight with quick steps, and Tae watches her go for a moment before he turns his attention to his own route.

There _are_ fewer people in this direction, and the halls are a little less blindingly bright as they twist into the depths of the facility, darkened as if for the end of the rotation. Tae keeps his steps measured, his attention on the doors he passes and the people behind them. There are scientists here too, though they're more scattered, and as he gets deeper into the building there are more and more security keypads beside the doors, fewer people that he can sense. The minds that he _does_ pass are all preoccupied, caught up in formulas or systems Tae can't parse, and he skims thoughts carefully, wary of anyone who might be a Force-user able to sense the intrusion.

There don’t seem to be any, though. The closest Tae gets is a Kaminoan woman who’s thinking about Jedi and training programs and the benefits training simulations with approximated Jedi techniques despite a lack of data, and she passes the stairwell Tae's tucked himself back into without so much as looking up from her datapad.

Tae watches her long, swaying steps turn the corner and then slides out of the shadows, frowning a little to himself. He knows about the purpose of the cloned army here, the way they're supposed to be a trap, but—the details don’t line up. An army for the Jedi makes no sense when the Jedi aren’t generals, aren’t soldiers. They're peacekeepers.

Something is going to have to go very wrong for this plot to work, Tae thinks. And Master Antilles seemed so certain that it _would_ , and—he’s one of the best Jedi in the Order. Tae is inclined to believe him.

Unsettled, Tae tugs at the thread-wrapped lock of hair that trails down through his ponytail, trying to force his mind back to the mission instead of letting it twist around an uncertain future. The chips are the main worry, and whatever they're going to do to the clones to make them obey the Sith's orders. The very _thought_ of that makes Tae's stomach twist. He’s seen slaves with explosive charges implanted in their skulls, or in valuable limbs—it’s a favorite method of control with the Hutts, and Nico is never scarier than when he’s dealing with slavers who use those tactics. But this—

This is twisting minds, like the very worst sort of Sith trick, and Tae _hates_ it.

Taking a careful breath, he picks another corridor that leads down a flight of stairs and then vanishes into near-darkness, nearly all of the lights along it extinguished. There are fewer doors down here, and no locks on the ones he does see, which is interesting. When he reaches out, trying to get a sense of any living being behind the doors, he can feel sleeping minds, dozens of them in each room. Dreaming, Tae thinks, and smiles a little, because it’s like being back in the crèche. He always used to love nighttime, and the moment when all the other younglings around him fell asleep. It’s…peaceful. Dreaming minds feel different. Gentler, in a way.

There must be hundreds of people sleeping down here, though. Tae makes his way past room after room full of sleepers, and it’s a little like being the only waking person in the whole world. The numbers are just as eerie as the hush, and Tae thinks _army_ and can't quite manage to breathe.

He’s far away from Knol, can barely sense the edges of her thoughts. But the corridor keeps going, and Tae only spares a moment’s thought before he follows.

And then, loud in the previously unbroken silence, there's a thought.

_Hevy is going to_ murder _us._

Tae pauses, blinking. Waking minds, up ahead, not groggy but quick-moving, calculating. The sound of bodies reaches him a moment later, quick steps and hushed hisses, a pair of figures who can't be all that much older than him. They're dressed in red uniforms, creeping along the corridor, and the one in the back says, “Echo, you _can't_ be serious—”

“It’s _my_ datapad, Fives,” the one in front retorts, mulish. “Droidbait just _left it_ in the mess hall—”

“It’s just like every other datapad! You can just get a new copy of the stupid regs—”

“That one has all my notes on it, I'm _not_ getting a new one—”

“Why the kriff are you taking _notes_ on the _regs_ , Echo, karking hell—”

Tae smothers a grin, ducking back behind the edge of a lift as they pass. Echo is sharply indignant, and his thoughts are all straight lines, belligerent and quick and sharp. Behind him, Fives is bright exasperation and resignation in equal measure, tangled up with well-practiced amusement and an edge of wariness. Their faces are exactly identical, right down to their haircuts, but the feel of their minds is as different as any two other people in the galaxy, and it’s interesting. Tae listens to their bickering as they pass, then hesitates, glancing down the corridor for a moment before he turns around and follows them.

He’s supposed to be looking for clues, for reasons, for ways to fix things, but—this feels important, too.

“Either shut up or go back to the bunkroom, Fives,” Echo hisses as they creep up the stairs and back into the upper part of the complex. “If you keep complaining we’re going to get caught.”

“And whose fault is that?” Fives retorts, but his thoughts are already spinning towards possible excuses if they _do_ get caught, ways to get them both out of trouble. Despite his indignation, there isn't even a second’s thought of throwing Echo under the speeder, and it makes Tae smile as he shadows them, keeping pace a few meters behind. Most of Fives's ideas don’t seem like they’ll work, but they're protective, wary, stubborn even so, and Tae skims the edges of them, liking the feeling.

“Not mine,” Echo retorts. They slip out into a wider hallway, and Echo pauses there, a triumphant slant to his thoughts. “Look, I told you, patrols don’t come this way for another twenty minutes—”

Ahead of them, deafening in the quiet, a door hisses open.

Echo’s thoughts snap into horror, into dismay, and Fives hisses a curse. He grabs Echo, hauling him back, but heavy footsteps are approaching quickly and the stairwell is wide open, with no chance to hide anywhere—

Tae moves without even having to think about it. He leaps up the last few steps, grabs Fives's arm, snatches the back of Echo’s shirt, and hauls them right up against the wall with him. Fives yelps, practically slamming into Tae as they hit only to catch himself with his forearms against the durasteel, and Tae claps a hand over his mouth, hauls Echo in as close as he can, and hisses, “Don’t _move_.”

All Tae can see are Fives's wide brown eyes, but he’s not shifting, even if every muscle feels tense where he’s pressed up against Tae. Quickly, Tae closes his eyes, then lifts his hand and spreads his fingers, breathing out. Focuses, and calms himself—

Light ripples like water around them, just as a man with the same face as Fives rounds the corner, older and grimmer and _angry_. He’s heavily armed, and Tae winces at the abrasive slice of his thoughts, but Jango Fett never even glances over. He walks right past them, not even half a meter away, and stalks into the lift. The doors seem to take forever to close, but they finally do, and a chime echoes through the hall as the lift departs.

Tae gives it another second, checking for anyone else who might be nearby, but can't feel anything. With a breath of relief, he drops his hand, then gives Fives, still pressed up against him and practically pinning him to the wall, a rueful smile.

“Sorry about that,” he says. “I figured it was better to surprise you than let Fett catch you.”

Fives blinks, looks him over, blinks again. Swallows, and says, “You're—”

“You're wearing _Jedi robes_ ,” Echo says, almost an accusation as he pulls out of Tae's grip. “Who are you?”

“ _Echo_ ,” Fives hisses, but Tae slips out from between Fives and the wall and raises his hands.

“I _am_ a Jedi,” he says. “Padawan Tae Diath.”

Echo’s mouth opens, then closes. He’s at a loss for words, and Tae smothers a laugh, meeting Fives's narrowed eyes without hesitation. Fives feels…sharp, incredulous, but there's also a thread of elation that’s twisted up tight beneath the doubt.

“A Jedi,” Fives repeats. “ _Here_. Why? Why didn’t you want the Original to see us?”

Tae frowns, because he’d thought that at least was obvious. “You're not supposed to be out, right?” he says. “You would have gotten into trouble.”

“Yeah,” Fives admits, and a moment later he grins. “Probably a lot of trouble. Thanks. I'm Fives.”

“Nice to meet you,” Tae says, and catches a flicker of a distracted mind. “A trainer is about to leave their office,” he says. “We should go. You were heading for the mess hall, right? It’s empty right now.”

“How do you know that?” Echo asks, but his mind is slanting towards fascination rather than a demand, and Tae smirks at him.

“I'm a Jedi,” he repeats. “Come on, there's—”

Something _jars_ across his mind, burning so hot that Tae feels like he tripped into the sun. He cries out, grabbing for his skull, grabbing for his anchor in the same breath—

The tether of it dissolves under a wash of blue light as azure fire fills the hall, and a Twi’lek woman steps out of a supernova of blue flames and says, “ ** _There you are_**.”

Tae can't even scream. He hits the ground on his hands and knees, and it’s like shoving his hand into a hyperdrive, like tapping into a sun. She’s a conduit, a channel, and through her Tae can feel the full weight of a universe distilled, beating down on him like an avalanche. It’s too much, too vast, too many minds and too much power, and he digs his fingers into his temples and wants to scream as that flood of pure Force energy crashes into him but can't even draw breath.

And then, loud, there's a snarl. There's a hand on Tae's skin, and one mind that’s achingly clear even in the midst of the pure chaos of the Force.

“No!” a voice cries, a warning and a demand. “Stop it! Whatever the hell you're doing to him, get _karked_!”

The avalanche rolling through Tae's skull doesn’t stop, but there's a pause, the barest edge of attention turned away. The spirit, the Force avatar—whatever she is, she stops, and Fives puts himself right between her and Tae, body braced to take a blow. Echo is at his elbow, but—Fives is the one Tae can feel. Fives is the one who gets her attention.

“ ** _You_** ,” she says, and there's fire rippling in her words. “ ** _I remember you_**.”

“What,” Fives says blankly, and takes a step back but runs right up against Tae. Tae grabs him, the hem of his uniform shirt, the curve of his waist, and Fives catches his fingers, grips them tight. Fives's thoughts are a clear pane of glass, a barrier, one small breath in the middle of the storm. Tae grabs for them, and beyond them that power is _boiling_ —

Blue streaks itself across Tae's hands, across Fives's, hot but not hot enough to hurt. The Twi’lek woman cocks her head, and that azure fire billows around her, a galaxy all its own. Through her, around her, Tae can feel _everything_.

That’s what exists through her. Everything in the universe, all energy and all life. She’s the conduit for it, and it makes Tae's head ache like it’s being split open.

And then, low, intent, a voice says, “Milady, if you seek a target, try _me_.”

The blue fire breaks, parting like the sea running up against a rock, and the figure in the spray is small and slim and beautiful, clad in white and gold robes that dance in the press of the power filling the hallway. But it doesn’t move her, doesn’t sway her, even as the Twi’lek woman turns her head and looks right at her.

Fay, Tae thinks, and it rings with relief. His fingers slip, but Fives catches them, grips—

His mind is so clear, so _bright_. Tae can feel it like a beacon, even as he slips away to somewhere dark and quiet.

Maybe it’s just his imagination, but he thinks Fives follows him down.


	12. Chapter 12

Fay has seen a lot of things in her long life, but—this is something new.

“ ** _Hello_** ,” the spirit says, and the glow of her eyes is all Fay can see, even more than Tae's still form, the clone trooper all but collapsed on top of him. She turns, the tip of her head making her lekku curl, and Fay sets her feet and doesn’t move, watching the sway of the spirit’s Jedi robes, the way the fire rises and falls like a vast, thunderous heartbeat.

“Hello,” she returns politely, steadily, and reaches out with just a thread of power, pushing the second clone in the hallway back against the wall so he doesn’t lunge for them. The hum of the Force around the woman is immense, but—Fay has lived her whole life with a connection to the Force that others have called impossible, and she lets it wash over her like a tide, break around her, disperse. Breathes through it, the great weight of the threads holding the universe together, and doesn’t budge.

There's a flicker of azure flame, a billow like a veil in the wind, and suddenly the Twi’lek woman is right in front of Fay, bare inches from her. This close, Fay can see the marks of existence on her, faded scars, the lines in her face, the imperfections of real life. She burns, but—

She wasn’t always like this, Fay thinks, and raises her hand.

The spirit reaches back, and the press of her palm against Fay's is desperation and determination and light, a flame in the darkness that’s burning wildly, trying to fight back against the shadows.

“What do you want with us?” Fay asks, taking a step forward. She slots her fingers through the spirit’s, folding them down over her hand, and reaches up to cup one blue cheek with her free hand. The spirit leans into it, lips parting on a breath, brown eyes fluttering closed, and smiles.

“ ** _Light_** ,” she says. “ ** _Balance_**.”

It feels like a chord struck too close, a sound that resonates right through to Fay's bones, and she sucks in a sharp breath, though she doesn’t move. “Only fools believe in the prophecy.”

The spirit opens her eyes again, and her sadness echoes through the Force like a mourner’s cry. “ ** _I don’t believe in prophecy. I believe in action_**.”

Action she’s taking, clearly. “And we can help you bring balance?” Fay asks quietly. She doesn’t look down at Tae, so still, or over at the trooper against the wall. Doesn’t look at the clone who tried to defend Tae from something unknown and clearly impossibly powerful, just waits.

“ ** _Of course_**.” The Twi’lek smiles, and her lek curls around Fay's wrist, squeezing gently. “ ** _I've seen what the galaxy needs. I'm just trying to provide it_**.”

“The Force has been clouded for a long time,” Fay says gently. “What you see might not be the truth. What you see might only be a fraction of the reality.”

The woman’s smile shifts to something small, secret. “ ** _There's a veil between your eyes and the Force_** ,” she says. “ ** _No veil exists that could cloud the Force itself_**.”

That, Fay supposes, is entirely true. She lets out a breath, inclining her head, and asks, “You won't harm anyone?”

The spirit pauses, expression twisting. Hesitates over the answer, like she’s confused, and finally shakes her head. “ ** _I don’t want to hurt anyone_** ,” she says, which isn't an answer at all.

“But people might be harmed?” Fay presses, leaning in. She ignores the burn of that vast power, wrapping her arms around the spirit’s shoulders, and draws her close. Hugs her, gentle but firm, and feels lean arms wrap around her in return with a desperation that doesn’t need words. “Oh, child.”

“ ** _Everyone was dead_** ,” she says, and her fingers clutch at Fay's robes. It’s a small thing, almost plaintive, _wounded_. “ ** _Everyone was dead and there was no balance to the Force. Millions of voices cried out and were silenced, all at once_**.”

Millions. Not Jedi, then. There have never been millions of Jedi, and there never will be. But—if she’s talking about things to come—

“The clones,” Fay says, stroking the line of her back. “You mean the clones and the Jedi were killed in the same moment.”

“ ** _As good as death_** ,” the spirit whispers, and in Fay's arms she’s losing substance, fading like mist. “ ** _The Sith stole them. I just want to get them_ back**.”

Fay draws back, just enough to meet her eyes. “You will,” she says. “ _We_ will. No Jedi ever stands alone.”

The spirit smiles at her. “ ** _Things are waking up_** ,” she returns. “ ** _Old things. Terrible things. Things with teeth. Master Antilles was eaten by the Dark last time he faced it. And so were you_**.”

Fay has never thought herself immortal. Only a fool would. Her death is an inevitability, and hearing about it doesn’t sway her. Jon's life in danger is also unsurprising; he’s a warrior, for all he’s a spiritual man. Nico said he had his own task in all of this, and she has no doubt he’s in the heart of the danger here. But it’s a warning, even if she isn't afraid, and that’s something to be grateful for.

“The Dark had best hope its teeth are very long indeed, if it wants to eat us this time,” she says evenly, and cups the spirit’s cheek again. Her fingers almost go right through blue skin, she’s become so insubstantial. “Thank you for the warning.”

The lek around Fay's wrist slips off, and the spirit inclines her head. “ ** _The Force is with you, Master Fay._** ”

“It always is,” Fay murmurs, and with a billow of blue light, the Twi’lek woman is gone.

For a long moment, Fay just stands where she is, feeling the ebb of the Force fading. No longer a nexus right before her, but a settling tide, the ripples fading from it. She breathes out, then smooths down her robes, turns, and goes down on one knee beside Tae and his defender, absently releasing the other trooper as she does. Instantly, he shoves away from the wall, darting over to grab for the trooper with the tattoo on his temple, but Fay raises a hand.

“Peace, trooper,” she says calmly. “They’re not hurt.”

“With all due respect, General, _not hurt_ doesn’t usually make people pass out,” the trooper retorts. “Fives? Fives, can you hear me?”

Fay doesn’t protest as he curls a hand around his friend’s shoulder, shaking him gently. Her attention is more caught by the way Tae and Fives's hands are tangled, and the streaks of blue that curl from Fives's hand to Tae's in an unbroken pattern. The mark hums in the Force, steady and low but _strong_ , and Fay rests her fingertips against it, trying to feel the connection. Whatever it is, it’s deep-seated, to the point that it’s hard to find the edges where Tae's mind stops and Fives's starts. She likely couldn’t separate their thoughts even if she tried.

“Kriff,” Knol says, and a moment later she hits the ground next to Fay on her knees, out of breath. “Nico's going to _murder_ me.”

Fay snorts quietly, laying a hand on Tae's forehead, the other on Fives's. “They’re all right,” she says. “Just sleeping right now while their minds adjust. That hardly means you're safe, though.”

Knol's fur ripples, and she pulls a face. “Thanks, Fay. And where were you when this was happening?”

“Speaking with the Force being who did it to them,” Fay says dryly. “She’s quite sweet, if rather…uncontrolled.”

Knol grimaces. “Uncontrolled and that strong? Grand. Come on, kid, eyes open, if your brain is scrambled Nico is going to skin me for a fur coat.”

There's no reaction. Tae is quiet, just breathing, and Fay shakes her head. “Let them be,” she says. “Their minds need the quiet. I’ll wake them when it’s necessary.”

“I don’t like that, either,” Knol complains. “What exactly are they adjusting to that a _telepath_ needs to completely knock himself out to deal with it?”

“Change,” Fay says simply, sitting back on her heels. When the conscious clone hesitates, still touching Fives, she gives him a comforting smile. “Your friend is very brave, to do what he did. Tae won't let him hurt himself now, though.”

“All right,” the boy says, though he doesn’t seem happy about it. “I—should I call medical?”

With a snort, Knol rises to her feet, tossing her mane back. “If the greatest Healer in the Order’s history can't help them, a couple of medical droids definitely won't manage it. What’s your name, kid?”

The clone looks from Fay to Knol, hesitating. Then, careful, he says, “CT-21-0408, General.”

Knol scoffs, loud and rude. “That’s a number, not a name. If the Kaminoans don’t even bother to give you some other designation—”

“They don’t,” the boy says. He glances down at Fives again, then up at Knol, and meets her eyes squarely. “I'm Echo. We have our own names.”

“Echo,” Knol repeats, pleased. “Nice to meet you. I'm Master Knol Ven’nari, and the next time you call me general I'm going to dangle you from a window by your underwear.”

Echo looks taken aback, which isn't an unusual reaction to Knol. Fay hides a smile behind her hair, pushing to her feet and sparing a moment’s attention to flick her fingers. Tae and Fives lift into the air, but their hands are still tangled, so tight together that Fay doesn’t know whether she could separate them even if she put all of her will behind it.

“Lama Su, the Prime Minister, granted me quarters on the other side of the facility,” she says, and when Echo glances at her, she inclines her head. “You're welcome to come as well, Echo.”

“Thank you, Gen—Master,” Echo says, relieved.

Knol's watching her with narrowed eyes, though. “The Prime Minister, huh? He’s not a part of this?”

Fay meets her gaze without wavering. “He’s not. I haven’t met the head scientist yet, though.”

Knol grunts, apparently satisfied with that. “Busy?”

“So I was told.” Colt and his batchmates were most displeased to be unable to lead her where she wanted to go, but Fay isn't bothered; the Force unfolds as it will, and she has faith in its path. Especially now.

She turns her hands over, remembering the feel of the spirit’s form beneath her fingers, the burn of her, the desperate sort of faith. Like Jon's, in a way, and it makes her think of the woman’s words, the threat that’s coming. She should warn Jon, but—given his connection to the Force, he’s likely already caught some hint of it. It’s hard to take Jon by surprise with much of anything.

Fay will anyway. The scope of the threat is an overwhelming thing, vast and bitter on the tongue, and Fay isn't about to let any of the threads of it slip past her. Not when so very much hangs in the balance.

Rex wakes easily, quietly, slowly. He’s _warm_ , warm in a way he hasn’t been in years, and the world is still and silent and simple. There's something soft against his collarbone, a heartbeat against his skin, breath against his chest. A weight rests against his side that settles something deep in his bones, something that’s been lonely for what feels like a thousand years.

For a long, long minute, Rex doesn’t want to open his eyes. There's still the certainty, entrenched in his mind, that he’s going to see the cargo hold of some rattling hauler, his pack beneath his head and nothing but his desperate, hopeless mission in front of him. Rex doesn’t know if he can stand that, doesn’t know how to bear it if that happens. But—

Against his collarbone, there's a breath, a soft sound. The head on his shoulder tucks in further, practically beneath his chin, and soft hair falls against his skin. Rex curls his arm tighter, and the body in it yields easily, settles more fully against him with a breath and then goes still.

There were no bodies that breathed beside him in those old haulers. Only the bodies of lost brothers, buried on icy worlds. Not warm like this. Not alive. Not _close_.

Rex opens his eyes, and the sight of Jon curled bodily against him seems _gutting_ in that one moment. Like a blow, like he’s been winded, like his heart skips and stutters in his chest. He almost jerks away, but that means _moving_ , means losing the warmth and comfort, and Rex won't. Wants to move closer instead, wants to wrap himself around Jon and bury himself there, skin to skin, and—

His hand clenches tight in Jon's shirt, and he rolls halfway over, spilling Jon onto the mattress. Instantly, Jon's eyes open, and they snap to Rex, widen faintly as Rex leans down. He buries his face in Jon's shoulder, clutching at Jon's ribs, and says, “Sorry, just—”

There are no words to finish that, nothing he can say that will distill it down enough to fit it to his mouth. He can _feel_ Jon's acceptance, though, like a shimmer of green reflected on slow-moving water. Can feel the way Jon's hands curl over his bare shoulders, ten points of contact burning against his skin.

“You don’t need to apologize,” Jon says, just a little hoarse. “Or worry.”

Rex snorts, turning his face into the curve of Jon's throat. “I'm not going to _stop_ worrying,” he says.

The sensation of fingers threading into his short hair makes him still, startled by the touch. Jon doesn’t move his hand, though, just rests it there, and he tips his head back like he did last night, giving Rex room. “You’re doing the only thing you can to stop what’s coming,” he says quietly, soothing, and his other hand hovers in the air for a moment, then settles on Rex's hip. It’s hot, startling in the cool air of the ship, and Rex feels like there's a fist around his lungs, a pressure in his chest, but he doesn’t know what it is.

“That’s not exactly helping, Jon,” he mutters, and thinks he feels Jon smile. Or maybe he feels his humor, a bright-quick dart of a grass-green against the deep forest of him.

“You’ve laid the groundwork and planted the seeds,” Jon says. “Now you have to wait for them to grow, and the wait is hard, but necessary.”

Rex groans. “Don’t sound _reasonable_ ,” he complains. “I just want…”

But he’s not sure what he wants. If there _is_ something, he can't even begin to put it into words.

Jon hums, low and soft, and tips his hand, dragging his fingertips through Rex's short hair. When Rex tips his head automatically, leaning into the touch, his stubble drags across Jon's skin, and he winces, opens his mouth to apologize—

Jon shivers, a sound breaking from his throat that makes Rex still. The shudder runs all the way through him, tangible and clear, and his fingers clench tight on Rex's hair, his hip.

Rex can hardly breathe, doesn’t dare move. Jon tips his head back a little more, dark hair spread across the pillow, and Rex knows he’s paying attention, sharp and almost wary. The length of his body spread beneath Rex feels like it’s suddenly been shoved into perfect clarity when Rex had hardly noticed a moment before, lean muscles and prominent bones and sharp angles, broad but perfectly unmoving beneath Rex's weight. One of Rex's knees is between Jon's, leg pressing up between his thighs, and Rex is suddenly acutely aware of his own bare skin, the edge of skin he can feel beneath the hem of Jon's shirt where his hand rests. If he slid it up just a little—

“Someone,” Jon says, and it’s rough in a way that makes _want_ jar through Rex, startling and sudden, catching him off guard. “You want someone.”

Rex swallows, tries to find the words to deny it. All he can manage, though, is, “You sound familiar with the feeling.”

Jon huffs, and when Rex raises his head, Jon is watching him, head tilted back against the pillows, pale eyes fixed on him. “Yes,” he allows without hesitation. “Being like this—it’s lonely.”

 _Like this_. Not _like me_ or _like you_ , but…like both of them. and somehow, knowing it’s a shared loneliness takes some of the teeth from the admission, makes it far, far easier to open his mouth and say, “Not a lot of people I’d want to sleep with who’d be willing to fuck a clone, in the Empire.”

The corner of Jon's mouth pulls up, just a little. “Or a Jedi, in the Outer Rim,” he agrees, and Rex snorts. Given the reaction he saw some planets have to the Jedi, he can believe it. More than once Obi-Wan and Anakin got accused of eating children, and a bunch of people once decided Ahsoka was a witch and tried to toss her into a volcano.

“Been a while?” he asks, rough, and—he shouldn’t be thinking about it. Jon is the Jedi who took him in, who agreed to help him without Rex ever having to so much as ask. But his hair is soft against Rex's fingers as Rex reaches up, brushing a strand away from his eyes, and the way his eyes flutter shut and his lips part is prettier than anything Rex has seen in years. And—it’s sex. It’s not anything terribly meaningful. But it’s been a long time since Rex let himself get that close to another person, and he wants it.

“Too long,” Jon allows, and turns his head. He kisses the inside of Rex's wrist where it rests next to his head, and Rex's breath tangles hard and sharp in his throat at the careful brush of lips. He’s too sensitive, the sensations too clear. The last one to touch him kindly, familiarly, was Ahsoka when they parted ways, and that’s been—so long now. And Jon might not know him, but at the same time, he’s the closest person right now, Rex's lifeline. His only personal contact, and the one trying to help him save _everyone_. If anyone understands, at this moment, it’s Jon.

He does want someone. He wants skin and closeness and the absolute certainty that he exists in this world, this time.

It’s with an edge of something like defiance in the face of the whole universe that Rex lowers his head to Jon's throat, skims it with his stubble and then kisses the skin there. Jon hums, and the hand in his hair strokes lightly, encouraging. Rex can't help but smile, and he lets his hand slip underneath Jon's shirt, flat against warm, scarred skin. The hand on his hip tightens, curls around his back, and Jon curls a leg over Rex's like he’s trying to keep him close.

“Thought I wasn’t your type,” he says roughly, and Rex pauses, blinking. He tips his head enough to look up at Jon's face, confused, and Jon smiles, quick and a little wicked. “Too tall.”

Instantly, Rex groans, thumping him in the hip even as his own amusement rises. “ _Bastard_ ,” he accuses over the sound of Jon's almost-silent laughter. “What, you don’t normally sleep with people shorter than you?”

Jon chuckles, and when Rex pushes up on one elbow over him, he smiles at him, fingertips skimming up his spine in a slow drag that lights up more nerves than Rex remembered he had. “It can make it awkward for them to pick me up against the wall,” he says, unbothered, and Rex freezes, suddenly not able to think of absolutely anything else. His breath hitches, and he meets Jon's eyes, has to swallow hard against the knot of desire in his throat as he pictures it all too vividly.

Jon is tall, but—Rex is genetically engineered to be the peak of Human physical perfection. He could do it. He could probably do it _easily_.

“Yeah?” he asks, hardly able to get the words out. “You like that?”

“I like most things,” Jon says calmly, though he’s still smiling a little. He pauses, watching Rex for a moment, and then asks, “Are you sure you want this?”

Rex snorts, because he can hear what Jon is actually saying. It’s the same thing _he_ wants to say. _Are you sure you want **me**_ , but that’s too gutting to ask outright, even like this.

“Yeah,” he says, because that’s the closest to an answer he has. “If you do.”

Those pale eyes are still fixed on him, thoughtful, steady. Light and lazy, Jon runs his fingers up Rex's back, tracing muscle, and hooks them over the back of his neck with gentle pressure, easing him down. Rex goes with it, leaning in, and Jon kisses him. It’s slow, soft, and his mouth is a sweet thing, yielding even as he leads the kiss. The scar across his lower lip makes it an intriguing thing, and the way he opens when Rex presses in, teasing with an edge of tongue, feels like it could be addictive.

And then, abrupt, Rex is moving, _being_ moved. There are hands on his shoulders, a knee between his, and his back hits the mattress half a second before Jon kisses him again. Rex answers it eagerly as Jon settles over him on his elbows, hooking an elbow over Jon's neck and pulling him in tighter as long fingers splay across his skin. They stroke up, drag down in a slow, teasing trace as Jon deepens the kiss, and Rex groans, pulls him in a little more. Jon's mouth is hot, and so is his hand, and it makes it hard to pay attention to anything except the way he strokes Rex's skin.

“May I?” Jon murmurs, right against his mouth, and Rex nods without even having to consider it, feels Jon's smile and the way he shifts. Hands catch Rex's thighs, pressing them apart, but instead of going right for his cock Jon kisses the hollow of his throat, drags his mouth down in a line of heat to his sternum, and Rex groans. He grabs Jon's hair, knotting his fingers in the tangled strands, but Jon doesn’t pause. He kisses across Rex's chest, lingering with each press of his mouth, and each little wash of heat and breath makes Rex's tension wind a little higher. He cups the back of Jon's neck, fingers sliding under the collar of his loose shirt, and hooks a foot around Jon's calf, hitches his hips up in an aborted thrust.

Rex is getting hard, and it’s almost a shock. So long since he did this, so long since he indulged even by himself, and with Jon's broad body on top of him, with that clever mouth kissing down his chest, sparking flares of heat like a fire kindling, he _wants_. Wants desperately, and greedily, and blindly, but—that’s safe, right now. Trusting Jon is easy. Trusting him with this is even easier.

“Jon,” he says, rough, and Jon hums without lifting his head, hands finding the waistband of Rex's pants and easing them down. Obediently, Rex hitches his hips up to let Jon slide them off, and Jon rises onto his knees for just a moment to get them free, then drops back down, kissing Rex's belly and scraping his teeth across a line of muscle. Rex groans, too much sensation for such a simple thing making him drop his head back, and he thinks he can feel Jon's smile tucked against his skin.

Big hands stroke his thighs, long, slow drags down as Jon settles fully on top of him, and Rex gasps, half-hard cock suddenly caught between soft cloth and his own body. He grits his teeth to keep from thrusting up, but Jon's mouth is lingering over his hip, teeth and then tongue against the line between torso and lower, and all Rex can think of is that wet, soft mouth on his cock, those same little kisses and that careful exploration.

“Jon,” he says again, more insistent, and when Jon flicks him a glance Rex tightens his grip on his hair. “ _Please_.”

There's a rough breath, and then Jon is rising. Rex makes an aborted sound of dismay, grabbing for him, but before he can do more than catch Jon's shirt, Jon settles over him, falls onto his elbows and presses his mouth to Rex's again. Desperately, Rex kisses him back, only to have Jon gentle it, ease it back into something slower even as clever fingers slide up the inside of Rex's thigh.

“Too much?” Jon asks, and there's true concern in his voice. It makes Rex groan, aggrieved, and he kicks Jon lightly in the calf.

“If you keep teasing me—” he starts, heated, and Jon laughs a little.

“Foreplay, not teasing,” he says, amused, and kisses Rex again. The fingers on Rex's thigh press, slide, then cup his cock, and Rex gasps. He twitches, and Jon kisses the sound from his mouth as he skims his fingers up the shaft, presses a thumb over the head. Rex shivers all over, hardly able to breathe, and his fingers go claw-tight in Jon's shoulder, dragging him in a little tighter. Jon makes a low sound of interest, tucking his cheek next to Rex's as he strokes his cock.

“You're beautiful,” he says, and Rex has to close his eyes, overwhelmed by the building heat, the words, the weight of Jon on top of him. He clutches at Jon, can't get ahold of enough skin to satisfy. Some part of him wants to push Jon back, strip him down and explore, but it’s been too long since anyone touched him. Rex _aches_ with it, with the slow, tight grip of Jon's hand pulling up his shaft, the slackening grip just in time to make it a tease before his fingers skim back down.

Jon's breath against his cheek is ragged, hitching. “So beautiful,” he murmurs, turning his head, and Rex takes the kiss fervently, rocks his hips up into Jon's hot touch, his calloused fingers. The heat that’s coiling in his gut is devastating, shattering all his defenses as it builds, but Jon's body blocks out the world. His mouth gentles it, teases, soothes, and Rex is panting, little sounds that he can't quite kill breaking from his throat. Jon kisses each one from his lips, fumbling between them, and a moment later his cock is pressed right up against Rex's, heat and soft skin and the way Jon groans, low and gutted, when he wraps a hand around both of them.

Rex can hardly take it, too much and not enough at the same time, and he digs his nails into Jon's shoulders, gasps against his mouth. Jon hunches over him, fingers slipping, not quite able to get around both of their cocks, and it’s automatic to shove a hand between them, to tangle his fingers with Jon's. Rex gets a handful of his cock and groans, hooks an arm around Jon's lower back and rocks his hips up, sliding them together in a wash of prickling heat that bites at his spine. Jon thrusts down, short, quick thrusts even as he strokes them clumsily, and Rex can't catch his breath, doesn’t _want_ to. He drags Jon in, fully on top of him as they rut together, and it’s hot and messy and he can feel the way Jon is gasping, sweet against his throat.

“Jon,” he manages, and Jon curls into him, groans. His hand is tight around Rex's cock, almost too much so, and he strokes up, kisses Rex's throat open-mouthed and clumsy.

The snap of tension breaking catches Rex by surprise. He grunts, hauls Jon closer as he grinds up into him, and comes with a wash of white lights sparking behind his eyes, heat and pleasure and release that steals every last inch of his breath. With a shuddering groan, he slumps back against the mattress, head spinning, breath hard and fast, and feels Jon's desperate strokes. The rush leaves him unsteady, uncoordinated, but he grips Jon's hips, tries to thrust back as Jon rocks against him. The brush of skin against his softening cock is nearly painful, and he twitches away, shifts.

Instantly, Jon pulls back, lifts away. He sits back on his heels, turning his face away as he strokes his cock, and that’s—not right. Even dazed, Rex knows that, and he gets an arm beneath himself, forces himself up. He presses himself up against Jon's broad back, kissing the line of his throat as he pushes Jon's hand away and replaces it with his own, and Jon's moan is a sweet thing, sharp and almost startled. It makes Rex smile against his nape, and he sets his teeth there, feels the way Jon's whole body shudders. Strokes down, too light, and then back up with a tight grip, and Jon's cock is already wet with Rex's come, slick in his hand. When Rex reaches around him, cups his sac and drags another tight stroke from root to tip, Jon cries out. His head falls back, and he comes with a shudder, hot and wet over Rex's fist.

For a moment in the aftermath, Rex just breathes. He stays where he is, pressed against Jon's back, and rubs his thumb lightly over Jon's cock. Jon doesn’t seem to mind; he tips his head back against Rex's shoulder, looking dazed, and Rex presses their cheeks together, then lists forward, bearing them both back to the mattress. He curls around Jon, sticky but not inclined to do anything about it, and the shared heat between their bodies is so much of what he’s been missing.

With a soft sound, Jon turns his head, looking back at him. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try, but a moment later his hand slots over Rex's, tangling their fingers on his stomach, and Rex smiles. He presses it into Jon's skin, against the back of his neck, and curls a little tighter around Jon's body.

Jon doesn’t say anything, but he squeezes Rex's hand as they catch their breaths, and Rex closes his eyes, breathes out, breathes in.

Everything inside of him feels warm, and even if it’s just for the moment, Rex will take it gladly.


	13. Chapter 13

“Gantu Major,” Quinlan says, flat. “You're stopping to supply on _Gantu Major_.”

Sugi rolls her eyes, already starting their descent through the thick clouds. “Look, Vos, between your warrants and mine, it’s not like we have a lot of choices. And Gantu Major will have what we need.”

“It’s a party planet,” Quinlan says, wrinkling his nose, and—well. Sometimes it really feels like he opens his mouth and Tholme comes out, and this is definitely one of those times.

“A gangster planet,” Shmi observes from the copilot’s seat, though her eyes are fixed on the first sparkle of multicolored lights that come clear as they break through the atmosphere. “I've heard of it.”

Sugi shrugs, unbothered. “Gangsters are fine. They all have a price, and I know a few I’d trust. We need fuel, and I need to make a few comms. Gantu Major is good enough to spend the night on.”

“No Hutts, even if there are gangsters,” Shmi says quietly, and she’s smiling. “They’ve always been one and the same to me.”

Sugi flicks her a glance, then snorts. Reaches out, tapping the arm of Shmi's chair, and says, “Call anyone here a Hutt and you’ll end up dumped in a gutter with a few organs missing. No Hutts.”

Quinlan breathes out through his nose, tells himself that it will be fine, and nods. “Decent doctors, too,” he says, and when Shmi glances up at him, he gives her a crooked smile. “We can finally get that charge out of your head.”

Shmi reaches up, touching a point on her skull, and says with an edge of steady certainty, “Sooner is better.”

Pausing, Quinlan eyes her, then the planet below. Thinks of her connection to the Force, weighs those words, and grimaces. A feeling, probably. And given how close Shmi is to being a Force-user, even without training, Quinlan's inclined to trust her feelings.

“I know a doctor,” Sugi offers. “She owes me a couple of favors, so I’ll take you in to her. Vos, you can see to the supplies?”

“Sure. Just send me a list.” Quinlan doesn’t exactly spend a lot of time on planets like Gantu Major, but he knows his way around them well enough, even if he generally likes to fade into the background a little more than planets like these allow. He can at least manage to stock them up and not get ripped off, even if he doesn’t have Sugi’s connections here.

“Good. And the wonder twins?” Sugi tips her head with a smirk, looking back to where Bly and Cody are tucked awkwardly into the chairs around the table, looking uncertain.

“I’ll stay with the ship,” Bly says without hesitation, and Sugi raises a brow.

“She won't start without my biosign,” she warns, and when Bly frowns at her, she raises a hand. “A warning. I don’t know you, and Vos might be willing to pay your way, but he doesn’t, either.”

Bly folds his arms over his chest, unimpressed. “I want to get to Metellos,” he says. “Tagging along with you is the fastest way there.”

Quinlan has no clue what the hell Aayla did to Bly that made him so desperate to find her, but—it must have meant a hell of a lot to him. He mentioned dreams, and seeing her in multiple places, and something in Quinlan wants to be offended that he got abandoned on Tatooine while Bly apparently got plenty of visits. He’s not that petty, though, and he won't be cruel. Not when he can feel how Bly is fixed, focused, determined to find Aayla no matter where she is. There's something else there, too, barely acknowledged, something dark that turns towards Aayla's light, and—

Well. Quinlan can relate to that.

“I’ll come,” Cody says, and his dark eyes are watchful, assessing as he leans back in his chair. “If you need help, Quinlan.”

That look is dangerous, Quinlan thinks. A little too much like Jango for Quinlan to rest easy with it, even if Cody otherwise seems calmer and more thoughtful. But—maybe that’s no a bad thing, given what’s happening. Cody's softer, too, around the edges, and Quinlan's wiling to focus on that.

“Sure,” he says easily, and flashes Cody a smile. “I could use some arm candy.”

Cody snorts, just a hint of red in his cheeks, but he gets up and comes to stand next to Quinlan, peering out through the viewscreen at the expanse of bright lights that stretch out across the surface of the planet. “You said it’s a party planet?” he asks.

Quinlan hums, watching him. From what he’s been able to tell, Cody and Bly haven’t ever been off Kamino before, and while they seem to have a decent idea about most things, some still trip them up. “Yeah. A planet where the main commodity is recreation. Lots of bars, lots of dancing, a hell of a lot of drugs and music and loose laws to make it easy to get whatever the hell you want.”

“Oh.” Cody frowns a little, eyeing the spaceport as Sugi’s ship slows, and asks, “ _This_ is the best place to resupply?”

Sugi scoffs, and Shmi hides a smile. “Yes,” she says before Sugi can, and it’s a little softer than Sugi would have bothered with. “From what I know of it, plenty of ships stop here to give the crews leave, so a lot of people _do_ take on more supplies. There should be plenty of trade.”

“In parts, too. Which is good, because I need a transistor bypass if we’re going to make it to Metellos in any sort of reasonable time,” Sugi says, flicking a handful of switches and then checking the readouts. A moment later, the ship settles on the landing pad with a hiss, and she smiles, pleased. “As much fun as this hopscotching around the galaxy has been, Vos, I _do_ have other jobs to get to. A mechanic around here is already going to set us back a day at _least_.”

Shmi hesitates, then reaches out, touching Sugi’s forearm lightly. “You don’t need to find a mechanic,” she says. “I'm trained, and I’d be happy to do it.”

Sugi’s brows rise. She sits back, looking Shmi over, and then asks, “You ever work on this model of cruiser before?”

“The previous version,” Shmi admits. “But I doubt they’ve changed the systems all that much. Watto found a scrapped AL-285 that he had me rebuild after he first bought me.”

The slant of Sugi’s expression shifts towards mildly impressed, and she cocks her head. “Better than trying to find a grease-monkey worth the credits on this slimepit,” she says. “All right. Surgery, then we go get the parts. You think you're up to it, free woman?”

Shmi's smile is a little wry, but she takes Sugi’s hand and lets Sugi pull her to her feet. “The sooner my head is my own, the happier I’ll be.”

“We can work with that.” Sugi tucks Shmi's arm through her own, leading her down the steps into the main cabin, and says over her shoulder, “I’ll comm you the list, Vos. Don’t take too long.”

“Yes, Captain,” Quinlan drawls, then grins when she flashes a rude gesture at him. She ignores his wave, though Shmi casts him an amused smile, and leads Shmi down the ramp as it descends. It stays pointedly open, and Quinlan snorts, turning to look for his cloak. It’s hanging on the back of Cody's chair, and he tips his chin at it and asks, “Want to toss me my gloves?”

“Just the gloves?” Cody asks, a little dryly, but he fishes them out of the interior pocket, glancing down at them as he does. “Nerfskin?”

“Yeah. Most durable I've found,” Quinlan says, and catches them out of the air—

His foot slips in loose red dirt, and he hits the ground on one knee, all the breath expelled from his chest in one hard blow. There are men in front of him, armored in white and orange, and a tall cliff that rises straight up. A varactyl is halfway up, and Quinlan catches a flash of familiar copper hair on her rider, movement below. A soldier with orange streaks across the chest of his armor lowers his comm, a hooded figure flickering out, and turns—

Blasters come up, and in the same moment Quinlan _feels_ the blow, as if the Force just started _screaming_.

“Fire!” the soldier cries, and Obi-Wan turns his head, shock flickering across his face—

“—lan! _Quinlan_!” a voice says, loud, close, and Quinlan jerks back, raising his hands. They hit cloth, and Quinlan hisses as the world twists, as he lands ass-first on the ground in front of a man in a hooded, enveloping cloak, one withered hand reaching out. In front of him, that same trooper with orange-streaked armor offers a holoprojector, and the cloaked man smiles as he takes it, the air around him so dark Quinlan could choke on it.

And then, like a blow, skin touches his, jarring Quinlan sideways as the world shifts again. He sucks in a sharp breath, looking up, braced for more darkness—

And gets Cody. Cody in a red uniform, blaster rifle case slung over his back, pausing in a sterile white room and looking back. There are more men around him, men who share his face, but Cody's eyes are on one in particular. On the other side of the room, a younger clone with blond hair is seated on the ground, looking frustrated as he breaks down a weapon. There's an unhappy set to his mouth, a tired sort of anger in the line of his shoulders, and Cody turns, leaves the clone who was talking to him and crosses the room with quick steps.

“Rex, right?” Quinlan hears, and Cody crouches down, tapping a section of the weapon with one fingertip. “The instructors won't tell you, but it goes fastest if you start here.”

The blond clone glances up, startled, and then down at the blaster. “But—they want us to do it the right way,” he says, frowning.

Cody shrugs, smiling a little. “They want us to do it the most efficient way. Sometimes that means ignoring what they tell us the first time around. Come on, let me show you.”

No darkness. No danger. Just fondness, a touch of humor. Quinlan closes his eyes, breathing out, and opens them again in Sugi’s ship, hands pressed flat to Cody's chest. Cody has a hand around his wrist, a look of concern and alarm on his face, and Quinlan feels winded, or maybe like he just got punched in the gut. He lists forward before he can stop himself, drops his forehead on Cody's shoulder, and closes his eyes, trying to remind himself to breathe.

“Bantha shit,” he mutters. It’s been… _years_ since the last time he saw the future. The Force has been clouded and any sort of premonitions have been nothing but shadow since well before Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon faced down a Sith on Naboo. Quinlan's ability is a weird, sideways version, but even that’s been unreliable for anything but short, immediate visions of his own future. This, though—this felt like _years_ in the future, except for that last vision.

There's a startled pause, and then a hand settles on the back of Quinlan's head, sparking a ripple of voices talking about commandeering a ship but nothing else. Cody strokes his hair, awkward and a little uncertain, and asks, “Quinlan?”

Cody. Because Cody was the man in the orange-streaked armor. But there was something _wrong_ with him. Quinlan normally gets a sense of emotion, of feeling, but—there wasn’t any. It was like looking at a droid in Human skin.

“I think you're going to kill my best friend,” Quinlan says, and doesn’t open his eyes, even as Cody freezes. “You shoot him off a cliff on Utapau. Three years from now.”

“What,” Cody rasps, and Quinlan laughs, entirely without humor.

“Kriff,” he says, and opens his eyes, staring blankly at the sleek black of Cody's undersuit. “I need a drink.”

“I think I do, too,” Cody says, a little dazed. “I—how do you _know_?”

“Kiffar,” Bly says, and Cody turns to look at him, startled. It makes him raise a brow, and when Quinlan meets his eyes, he looks thoughtful rather than aggressive. “He’s a Kiffar. That’s what all the tattoos are about. And the Vos Clan rules the planet.”

“There are a lot of us,” Quinlan says, and pulls back. Cody's fingers skim his cheek, and he gets a flash of Aayla in a sterile white hallway, burning blue.

“Most of you can't get psychic impressions off people,” Bly observes, still watching him. “No wonder you're friends with a Jedi.”

Quinlan doesn’t try to correct him, just pulls away and rises to his feet. It takes him a moment to catch his balance but when he does, he starts towards the ramp, not allowing himself to look back. “If you're still coming, move it. Sugi gets impatient.”

There's a startled pause, then quick steps behind him. “Quinlan,” Cody says, insistent. “Quinlan, _wait._ What the heck do you mean?”

“Haven’t you ever seen the future before?” Quinlan asks sardonically. He hits the duracrete and turns towards the lift, trying not to let the dull roar of the city around him ring in his ears. He’s always a little high-strung after a vision, and after three in quick succession—

A hand catches his arm, hauls him back around. “No,” Cody says sharply. “I haven’t. so explain it to me. I'm going to kill your friend? Why?”

Quinlan hesitates. Weighs what to say, because trying to change the future doesn’t always work, but—

It’s Obi-Wan. He loves Obi-Wan just as much as he loves Aayla and Tholme, and letting him die is so far beyond unacceptable that Quinlan doesn’t even have words for it.

“Avoid Utapau,” he says, but when Cody pulls him a step closer, he doesn’t resist. “I don’t know _why_. That’s not how it works. But you…weren’t yourself. Something happened.”

Cody stares at him for a long moment, unmoving. “And it’s going to happen? Definitely?”

“No,” Quinlan says. He breathes in, closes his eyes, forces himself to settle. “No, it’s not definite. It’s something that _could_ happen, but your choices can still change things. That’s what the future is about.”

Cody blows out a long breath, letting go of Quinlan's arm. “I think I need a drink, too,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face.

Despite himself, Quinlan laughs a little. “Yeah,” he agrees, and leans in, bumping his shoulder against Cody's. “Let’s go find Sugi’s supplies, ship them back here, and then get hammered.”

Cody's smile is crooked and rueful. “Sounds like a plan to me.”

A hand brushed over his hair stirs Rex from sleep, and he huffs in protest, turning his head into the heat of a warm body. He curls in, hands going to warm, scarred skin that’s criminally removed from the blankets’ warmth, and buries his face in the curve of a thigh.

“Not _yet_ ,” he says in complaint.

There's a low, soft sound of amusement, a brush of lips across his temple. “Yes yet,” Jon says, gentle, and rubs the heel of his hand into just the right spot in Rex's shoulder, making him groan. “I have caf.”

Rex grunts, unimpressed with the bribe, but opens one eye to look up at Jon. He’s showered, and his hair is brushed, falling loose around his shoulders. It’s pretty, and Rex reaches up, tangling his fingers in the soft strands to pull Jon down into a real kiss.

Just like last night, his mouth is sweet, soft, yielding. He kisses Rex like it has his full attention, with no hesitation and no reserve, and Rex wants to curl up beneath his skin and stay in that kind warmth for the rest of existence.

“Caf?” Rex asks as they part, and Jon laughs a little, his smile a pretty thing. Before he can stop himself, Rex reaches up, pressing his thumb to the edge of scar that slants across Jon's lower lip, and Jon turns his head to kiss the pad of his thumb. It makes Rex hum, and he turns over, slides sideways, and settles comfortably against Jon's crossed legs, his head in Jon's lap. It makes Jon chuckle, and he leans in, kissing Rex again upside-down and running his fingers lightly down his bare chest.

“Now you want the caf?” he asks, amused.

“I always wanted the caf,” Rex says, and reaches for the cup that’s safely out of reach on the narrow bedside shelf.

Jon keeps it right where it is, making a thoughtful sound. “I might need it to get you out of bed, though,” he says. “Maybe I should keep it.”

Rex gives him a dirty look. “Isn't bribery above a Jedi's dignity?”

“It’s not above _my_ dignity,” Jon says.

With an unimpressed sound, Rex rolls over, burying his face in the inside of Jon's thigh. He feels…good. Warm all the way through, and lighter than he has in years. “Maybe I don’t want the caf that badly,” he says. “I could just go back to sleep.”

Jon's clever hands stroke over his shoulder, down his back. “You could,” he allows. “But we’re almost to Ilum, and if you're going to survive it, you need at least a little more training.”

 _That_ doesn’t exactly sound promising. Rex turns his head to eye Jon incredulously, and demands, “ _Survive it_?”

Jon looks unperturbed. “You will. But you should know how to move things with the Force before we go down to the planet’s surface.”

“Ugh,” Rex mutters, but he pushes himself up, hooks a hand around the back of Jon's neck to tangle his fingers in his hair, and drags him into a slow, lingering kiss. “Thank you,” he murmurs against his lips, not even wanting to part that much. “For last night.”

Jon shivers as Rex's hand slides around his waist. “I think it was a joint effort,” he says roughly, and when Rex kisses him again, he moans softly, a small intriguing sound that curls with sharp little feet down Rex's spine.

It’s incredibly tempting to push him down onto the mattress and strip him the way Rex was in too much of a rush to do last night. To explore him, every inch of scarred muscle and long limbs, and Rex feels _greedy_ with the urge.

Not enough to abandon what he’s supposed to be doing, though. Rex is at least that good at prioritizing.

With a sound of resignation, Rex lifts his head, dragging his thumb over Jon's lips and watching the way his pale eyes flutter closed before he sits back on his heels. “What kind of training?” he asks.

The way Jon closes his eyes and shivers is _immensely_ gratifying. “Moving things,” he says roughly. “Self-control.”

Rex snorts. “I've already got that,” he says dryly, and when Jon blinks at him, he raises a brow. “I don’t have you pinned to the mattress, do I?”

Jon swallows, wetting his lips, and Rex _wants_. Wants to push him down and strip him naked and watch him come apart. But—

Training. He can do that.

He _has_ to do that.

“Something for later,” Jon says quietly, and slides off the bed. He hands Rex the caf, then says, “The other room will be safer.”

“Safer,” Rex repeat dubiously, but follows him, taking his first sip of burning hot caf. It’s sweet, and Rex looks down at it, startled. He doesn’t think he’s ever had it sweetened before.

“Flying objects in a small space seems unsafe to me,” Jon says mildly, and sinks down cross-legged in the middle of the floor. “I’ll teach you the method, and then we’ll see what you can manage.”

Rex hesitates, slowly setting down his caf. Even more than what they’ve already done, moving objects seems…big. Like irrefutable proof that he’s somehow Force-sensitive, when sensing projectiles or feeling the Force could be put down to Jon's presence and Rex's willful imagination. He’s seen Jedi move objects with the Force so many times, and he’s never had any idea how they manage to do it beyond _Jedi powers_.

Trying to think of himself with those Jedi powers is so far beyond the absurd that Rex can't even put it into words.

“How?” Rex asks helplessly. “I don’t—”

Jon is watching him, thoughtful, quiet. “Rex,” he says, and offers his hands. “Trust yourself.”

It seems like an utterly impossible request right now. Rex closes his eyes, taking a breath, and sets his hands in Jon's, letting Jon draw him down to sit across from him. “I'm not a Jedi,” he says, and he _knows_ his hands are too tight around Jon's, but he can't bring himself to loosen his grip. “I _can't_.”

Jon smiles at him, a little crooked. “Someday, you’re going to have to accept it,” he says. “You felt the Force. You’ve seen Aayla. I can feel the Force beating in you.”

It’s easy to _hear_ that, but accepting it is something else entirely. Rex grimaces, looking away, and says, “I don’t even know how to _start_.”

“That’s all right,” Jon says. He carefully loosens Rex's grip to free a hand, then reaches out, fingers spread. A moment later, a small metal ball arcs across the ship, dropping into his palm, and he holds it up.

“Close your eyes,” he says quietly. “Meditate. Breathe. Listen.”

“Listen to _what_?” Rex mutters, but he pries his other hand free of its death grip around Jon's and sits back, letting himself settle. It’s easy to deepen his breaths, to moderate his breathing the way Jon showed him, and maybe it’s not quite meditation, but Rex can't understand what Anakin hated so much about doing it.

Maybe that’s a good thing, really.

“Good,” Jon says. “Now, like when I threw things at you, try to expand your awareness. Reach out. Feel what’s around you, and all the different shapes the Force takes. Find me, and what I'm holding.”

Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but Rex almost believes he _can_ feel Jon, that impression of green forests getting deeper the longer he stares into them. It reminds him of a half-remembered dream, though he isn't even sure when he had it, let alone what was in it. It’s peaceful, though; there's nothing alarming about the darkness, and nothing unsettling about Jon's presence, and Rex wants to lean into him, wants to take his hand. He can almost see it outstretched, the smooth silver of the ball sitting in his palm, but—

“Faith,” Jon says, quiet but insistent. “Just have a little faith, Rex.”

It’s hard. After everything, after the war and the Empire, having faith in the Force seems like pageantry, or the trappings of a dead order that Rex isn't meant to be part of. He grits his teeth, trying to force himself to relax—

Scarred lips touch his, a gentle, chaste kiss that almost knocks Rex off balance, and he opens his eyes just as Jon pulls away. Jon catches his hand, twining their fingers together, and pulls his hand up so they're both cupping the silver ball.

“Look,” Jon says, and tugs Rex in, resting their foreheads together, ball cradled between them. “Look at it in the Force. It’s part of the Force just like I am, just like you are. Quieter, harder to find, but—you can if you look for it.”

Something in Rex's chest twists, and he lets out a shuddering breath, leans into Jon a little more firmly. When he reaches for that green-dark glow, it’s even easier to find than before, and he can feel something foreign but familiar pressed up against his thoughts like a body curled around him. Jon is _there_ , and Rex knows that, but he doesn’t know how to find one stupid silver ball without knowing that it’s sitting in his hand.

“It doesn’t matter how long it takes,” Jon says simply. “This is the only moment that exists. In this moment, try to reach for it without touching it.”

“I _am_ touching it. Obviously,” Rex mutters, but he doesn’t really mean it. Not _entirely_.

Jon's hand slides over his, until Rex is cradling one scarred hand in his own. “Now you're not,” he says, patient, and tips his head, pressing his lips to Rex's brow. “Relax. I have faith that you _will_ be a Jedi. This will come.”

A Jedi. _Rex_ , as a _Jedi_. Rex's eyes feel hot, but he doesn’t let himself react, breathes through it, lets it slide out with each exhale. Not denying what he’s feeling, but—identifying it. Disbelief, and fear, and the edges of anger building alongside frustration. Tries to think what he can do about them, but the only option is _succeed_ , and that’s the furthest thing from certain.

But—

Jon is steady. Every breath is even, measured, and his hands don’t shake. He’s watching Rex, blue eyes unwavering, and there's no doubt anywhere in his face that Rex can read.

Rex closes his eyes. He _doesn’t_ have faith in the Force. Not the way a Jedi would. Not the way he _should_ , if he really is a Jedi. But Jon does. Rex has seen his faith, the calm it brings, the certainty, and he wants that. He _wants_ to have that faith.

His mouth feels hot with the imprint of Jon's lips, too sensitive, too aware. Jon has faith in him. Jon believes that he can do this, that he can save his brothers this time around. All he needs to do to start proving that he _can_ is lift the damn ball.

Rex grits his teeth, then breathes out long and slow. Relaxes each muscle, not trying to rush, just feeling. Jon is green darkness, and his hand is in Rex's, still and warm. But…

He’s holding something. Something cooler, and quieter, and almost perfectly round, and Rex registers, belatedly, that there's a faint dent in the ball’s surface that he hadn’t noticed before. It’s a flaw, and one his eyes didn’t catch, but he can feel it now.

He feels the ball, humming in Jon's palm, and reaches for it without moving his hands. Thinks of picking it up, and can feel the weight of it, the smoothness, the heft. Opens his eyes, and—

The ball hovers in the air between them, bobbing slightly as it spins, and Rex can't quite breathe.

Jon laughs, just a little, whisper-soft and a little rough. “Congratulations,” he says, and tips his forehead against Rex's. “You did it.”

Rex's muscles are trembling, like he’s holding an AT-AT off the ground instead of a bit of metal, but—

He _did_. He used the Force. Not just passively, to feel something happening, but _actively_ , just like Anakin and Ahsoka used to do.

“I did it,” he repeats, disbelieving. “I _lifted it_. Jon, I—” He breaks off, out of words, and Jon smiles, tips his head, kisses him lightly.

“You _will_ be a Jedi,” he promises, low, and there's nothing to be done but for Rex to grab him and reel him in, kissing him with something like elation singing through him and the silver ball still bobbing in the air in front of him.


	14. Chapter 14

In the middle of its night rotation, Kamino is quiet, slow. Not still, not silent—Fay can feel hundreds of minds still awake and working, moving around her like a tide. But the noise of the day is muted, and there's almost no one in the hall as she slips out of her rooms, leaving Knol to watch over Tae and Fives for the moment. She can feel one mind in particular that’s moving, and it’s enough to catch her attention, to pull her feet towards the closest lift.

Down four levels, just below the surface of the ocean, the lift doors open on another world entirely.

There are no active minds down here beyond the one Fay came seeking. No one is working, and no one is present, and the whole area stands perfectly still and sterile, white and shadowed with the lights left low.

But—

There _are_ minds, Fay realizes, and crosses to a tall door set into the wall. When she rests her fingertips against it, she can feel the hum of vague, half-formed thoughts behind it. Children, not even infants yet, still being formed, and all they are is instinct, unconscious systems slowly forming into beings, but Fay can sense them. She closes her eyes, tipping her forehead against the door for a long moment, and then forces herself to step away. Later she’ll walk here, feel a hundred thousand lives settling all at once, but for now, other things need her attention.

Three hallways down, up a short flight of stairs, there are more doorways. More minds in the process of being grown, but—

One aware mind, as well, dark with determination and anger, as bright as a trap and as sharp as poison.

Fay presses her fingertips to the keypad outside the door, feeling the imprint in the keys, and then enters the numbers and lets herself in. The room is all shadow and low light, with towering structures rising towards the distant ceiling. Cloning chambers, Fay thinks, brushing her fingers over the closest one as she passes. Not even minds yet, in any sense of the word, but—all of these are going to be men like Neyo, like Fives or Echo or Ponds. Soldiers created for the Jedi. Created to _kill_ the Jedi, because if they give the Jedi their loyalty there's nothing the Jedi will be able to do but return it, and the Sith know that.

A thousand years since the Sith were a threat, and this is how they return. Millions of innocents, created just to die, to serve them, and the Dark Side makes Fay _sick_.

She pulls her hand back, takes a breath. Keeps moving, because her target is deep in the maze of cloning chambers and still hunting.

Fay catches the slant of frustration before she catches the actual man, and it makes her smile a little despite the situation. Jango is cursing under his breath, leaning over a control panel for one of the chambers as he studies the readout, and Fay slips up behind him, casting a glimpse over his shoulder to see what he’s found. There's nothing yet, just a readout on the vitals and development of the clones in this particular chamber, and Fay looks it over, then says, “They're too young. Anything implanted in them would be imprecise, and the Kaminoans seem the sort to be as precise as possible.”

Jango twitches hard, one hand jerking towards the blaster at his hip, but he aborts the motion halfway through and turns, scowling at Fay. “And what would you know about it, _Jedi_?”

Fay snorts softly. “I'm a Healer,” she says. “I like to think I know rather a lot about it.”

For a long moment, Jango is silent. Then, sharp, he jerks his head in a single nod and turns away, back to the display. “Your chips aren’t anywhere,” he says. “If this was a lie—”

“It wasn’t,” Fay says quietly, because she would trust Jon's news without hesitation. She steps up beside Jango, leaning over the readout, but her hood gets in the way, and she brushes it back with a flicker of distracted irritation. “Did you pick this particular cloning chamber for a reason?”

Jango is perfectly, entirely silent for a long moment, and Fay can feel the weight of his eyes on her. Then, deliberately, he looks away, turning his gaze on the display, and says, “Far from the door, but in line with it. I’ll hear if someone comes.”

“No one is thinking about coming here,” Fay says absently, and pulls up a set of diagnostics. The clones are all engineered to be the absolute peak of what Humans can be, and she traces her fingers down a row of readouts, then stops at one in particular. Pulls it up, letting the data unfold across the screen, and frowns.

“What?” Jango demands, folding his arms. “The chip?”

“I told you, they're too young.” Fay opens the gene sequence, studying it, and then smiles. “This one is going to have blue eyes. The Kaminoans’ system isn't as perfect as they like to think it is.”

Jango pauses, clearly startled, and looks from Fay's face to the image of the infant clone. “Blue eyes,” he repeats. “They're _clones_.”

Colt told Fay, when he was leading her to find Nala Se, about the decommissioned clones. About perfectly functional Humans, destroyed because of genetic anomalies that the Kaminoans saw as flaws in their process, and quietly did away with. A handful are still alive, kept for manual labor, but—

Fay has never taken the minds of a whole group of people all at once before, but the scientists make it tempting to try.

“They are,” she confirms, soft, and lets the readout fold away. “There have been others with the same mutation. They’ve simply been decommissioned before you’ve seen them.”

Jango takes that, digests it without moving. He’s still watching her, but Fay ignores him, stepping away from the chamber and heading for another one along the wall. The minds in this one have more form, more substance, and she lights up the display with a touch, then leans over it.

After a long, long moment, Jango follows her, steps nearly silent across the tile. “If you already know about the chips—” he starts harshly.

“About, yes,” Fay says calmly. “But I don’t know at what stage in the cloning process they're implanted, or how to shut them off once they are.”

Jango is silent for a long minute, watching Fay's fingers skip across the display. “It was supposed to be loyalty to the Republic that made them turn,” he finally says, harsh. “Training. If the chancellor gave the order, they’d obey.”

Slowly, Fay lets her fingers still. Breathes in, remembering Neyo's desperation when he told her the clones were made for the Jedi, and breathes out.

“The margin for error must have been too great,” she says evenly. “Dooku and his Master decided not to rely solely on training, when there was the chance the clones could waver.”

“They would have done their jobs,” Jango says flatly. “It wouldn’t have been a problem.”

Done their jobs and slaughtered the Jedi. Fay closes her eyes, trying not to let her control waver. “Sentiment infects everyone eventually,” she says, and calls up the list of tasks this cloning chamber is meant to perform. Maintaining growth seems to be its only function, and she frowns at it, then moves on to the next one.

The clones in this one are older still, several months in any regular Human reckoning, but when Fay calls up the records and the system data, there's nothing unusual. That’s almost more unnerving than finding the chips would be, and she hesitates, considering. Chips would have to be implanted after the clones’ brains reached a certain stage of development, but—she’s not seeing any evidence of any sort of procedure to implant them. None of the adult clones knew of the chips, and couldn’t recall any procedures that included brain surgery happening to them, even as children. But—

There has to be an answer. Nico said Jon was certain, and the spirit confirmed it. The clones are going to be stolen by the Sith, and Fay has to save them from that fate.

“I'm missing something,” she murmurs, straightening and tucking her hair back behind her ears. “If they aren’t implanting the chips, how are they getting them into the clones?”

“Jedi always miss things,” Jango says flatly. When Fay slant an unamused look at him, he snorts, folding his arms, and says, “Half the crime in the galaxy—”

Fay rolls her eyes. “There are ten thousand Jedi,” she says. “There are _millions_ of planets in the Republic. And from what I know about you, Jango, crime is hardly something you object to.”

“The slave trade is,” Jango bites out. “And for all their _compassion_ , the Jedi have never done anything about slaves in Republic space—”

Fay doesn’t roll he eyes again; she has at least that much self-control. “Whatever lies you need to tell yourself to justify your use of the clones, Jango, I hope they're more comforting than the truth.”

Jango growls, taking a step forward, but Fay has faced down far more dangerous men in her lifetime. She meets his eyes and doesn’t waver, because in this at least she knows she’s right.

“The Jedi have never condoned slavery, and there isn't a Jedi in existence who would stand by if they saw slaves they could free,” she says evenly. “I would be the first to admit the flaws in the Order, and the way the Senate’s will presses upon it, but that at least is nothing but the truth.”

Jango's anger is a blade, flashing sunlight. “You hate slavery until it benefits you,” he snaps. “You fight it until it gets your enemies out of the way—”

His mind is a dangerous thing, tangled for all it’s regimented. But just for a moment, with a startling, painful clarity, Fay catches images. A spice runner, a ship, chains, _suffering_. Her breath hitches hard in her throat as they hit, and she has to close her eyes against the force of them. Painful, _pained_ , and she reaches out.

Jango's voice jars to a stop as her fingers close around his elbow, and Fay steps close. Raises her head, looking up at him, and says, “Jango, who did that to you?”

Jango stares at her for a long moment, caught off guard. His eyes flicker to her hand, then up to her face again, and he brushes her off with a sharp motion. “The Jedi,” he snaps. “The Jedi and the governor of Galidraan. The leader—”

Fay shakes her head. “They turned you over to face _justice_ ,” she says, because she knows very little about Galidraan, but she knows that. “They wouldn’t have participated in selling _anyone_.”

Jango's bark of laughter is harsh, ugly. “Justice,” he repeats, mocking. “Of course. Because you Jedi and your _ideals_ —”

Fay's temper is a cold, slow-moving thing, like a glacier, but she can feel it shifting, has to close her eyes to hold it back. “You,” she says flatly, “are a hypocrite, Jango Fett.” Turning on her heel, she stalks into the maze of cloning chambers, scanning them for any differences, and the lack is frustrating but less so than the conversation.

She almost thinks that Jango is going to leave, but after several long minutes, his footsteps follow her path, and he appears around the edge of the chamber she’s inspecting, scowling. But—

His mind is a little smoother, less like she’s going to cut herself on its edges right now.

“You mean the clones,” he says, and that’s sharp, but his gaze when it falls on Fay is almost wary. “You think I'm being a hypocrite about the clones.”

“Of course,” Fay returns, as polite as she can make it. “You bred them to die, and you refuse to acknowledge them as sentient beings. If the Republic were to use them, that would be slavery. Slavery that _you_ arranged. Don’t accuse the Jedi of not caring when you picked out one special clone for yourself and are willing to let all the rest die without free will, just because you couldn’t be bothered to care.”

Jango doesn’t answer, and Fay watches the shift of emotions across his face, through his mind, and inclines her head. Turns on her heel, drawing her hood up over her face, and leaves the room. There are more to check, and more things to see to, and the night is only just starting.

Tae feels…warm. A little heavy, a little achy, like he’s been training too hard, but—warm overall. It slides through his bones, settles in his spine, and he doesn’t want to open his eyes when the alternative is just staying here and burrowing further into the warmth.

His _mind_ is warm, too. If Nico is a calm ocean, this is a deep spring, warmed by the earth, with ripples of effervescent bubbles rising. They're bright, and sweet, and Tae sinks his own mind down among them. It’s incredibly easy to do, as natural as breathing, and the feeling of the other mind wrapping around his makes Tae sigh a little, shifting in tighter against the warm body that’s curled around him and tucking his nose into soft cloth. There's a heartbeat under his ear, and another a short distance away, but for once he isn't intimately aware of every thought the other person is having, every emotion they're feeling.

Even Nico tethering him isn't this much of a shield against the outside world, Tae thinks, a little startled, and opens his eyes.

There's red in front of him, red cloth and dark skin and brilliant, shining blue. Tae stares at it for a moment, uncomprehending, and then pushes up, getting an elbow beneath himself and glancing upward.

Fives. It’s Fives on the bed beneath him, their legs tangled, their hands still locked together. When Tae glances down, it’s to the sight of more streaks of blue, an interlocking pattern that stretches from Tae's skin to Fives's with hardly a break. And when Tae shifts his hand, the pattern follows, curling like living vines into a new arrangement but still unbroken.

It feels like the Force spirit’s power, burning and bright. Distilled, muted, but—

When Tae drags his fingers over the marks, from his wrist up to the back of Fives's hand, he can feel the echo of it. One note, all-encompassing, that sings the same way her presence did.

“Ugh. Tickles,” Fives complains, wrinkling his nose, and bats at Tae's hand without opening his eyes. “Echo, _quit_.”

There's a snort from a short distance away, and Echo says, “It’s not me, tell your Jedi to quit.”

“It’s _always_ you,” Fives complains, and opens his eyes, looking right up at Tae. He freezes, breath catching, and Tae smiles a little sheepishly at him.

“Sorry,” he says, and pulls his hands away. “I was just—the tattoos—”

“Tattoos,” Fives repeats, and glances down. The instant he catches sight of the tattoos, his eyes go wide, and he jerks one hand up, watching the lines shift with a look of shock. They twist around his skin, like they're reaching for Tae, and Tae rubs his fingers over his own as they shift, reaching back, and then very deliberately sits up and tucks his hands into his lap.

“Aayla did it, I think,” he says, watching Fives's face, and…there's no anger in Fives's mind, just disbelief and wonder in equal parts, which is enough to ease some of the tension out of Tae's spine. “Some—some kind of connection.”

Fives blinks, looking up, and he meets Tae's eyes, startled. “That’s why…”

“I'm in your head,” Tae finishes for him, and swallows. “I'm sorry, I usually have better control. But Aayla appearing made my tether snap, and you were so close, and you have a pretty mind—”

“Wait,” Echo interrupts, raising his hands as he rises from his chair. “Who is _Aayla_?”

Tae blinks, and Echo blinks back. For a moment, Tae can't find anything to say—

“The spirit,” Fives says. “Glowing blue Twi’lek lady. Her name’s Aayla.”

Tae knows that, like he heard her introduce herself to them outright. But—

Aayla is Quinlan's former padawan, Tholme's grandpadawan. Tae's met her a few times, because Tholme and Nico are old friends, but—he hadn’t recognized her, like that. Or hadn’t _realized_ he recognized her. Now, though, it’s like he always knew, and that’s not something that usually happens, even when he’s losing control.

“Not just my head,” Fives says, and Tae meets his eyes, helpless to explain any part of this. He reaches out, and Fives reaches back. The press of their hands sends the blue streaking over their skin, curling across where they touch like it’s one unbroken line of azure.

“You're okay?” Fives asks, and his hand grips tighter, starts to pull and then hesitates.

Tae can feel what he wants, though, and it’s what Tae wants as well, so he slumps forward, dropping his head on Fives's chest. There's a sharp inhale, a pause, and then Fives's arms loop around his shoulders, hugging him gently.

“Just a headache,” Tae says, but he twists his fingers in Fives's shirt and doesn’t let go.

“Yeah,” Fives says after a moment, and he sounds entirely bewildered. “I can feel that. But not—not like it hurts. Like I know it’s hurting _you_.”

A mental bond, Tae thinks, and winces a little. Something deeper than a Master-padawan bond, if Fives can feel that much, and…all-encompassing. It blots out everything else in Tae's head, even the trailing echo of his bond with Nico, and that’s alarming, but—

Just like in the hall, when Aayla appeared, Fives's mind feels like a shield, a barrier. Tae can sense the outside world, Echo’s mind and his quick thoughts and his wariness, and then another mind in the room beyond them, streaking forward with concern and plans for the worst-case scenario. They're clear, and they feel like they always do, but for the first time in his life, Tae doesn’t feel like he’s about to slip and lose himself in them with one incautious step.

He curls his fingers a little more tightly in Fives's shirt, and there's a hesitation, then a hand brushing his hair. Tae must have lost his hair tie at some point, but he can't remember it. While he was unconscious, probably. Or maybe Fay took it out.

For a moment, he considers reaching for Fay, because she can usually feel things like that, and answers quickly. But…he’s not entirely sure he or Fives can handle a mind like Fay's just yet. Not until Tae figures out what’s going on.

“Do you need anything?” Echo asks, quiet. “Master Fay left, and Master Ven’nari is out taking a comm call, but I can get them if you want me to.”

Tae shakes his head without lifting it. “We’re all right,” he promises, and then pauses, sighs at himself, and corrects, “ _I'm_ fine. Fives?”

“Yeah, me too,” Fives says, bemused. He presses his fingertips to the line of Tae's spine, then asks, “That…Aayla. She sounded like she knew you.”

She did. The moment she’d appeared, she’d said _there you are_ like she’d been waiting for them, like them finally appearing was a relief and long overdue. And—

There's an echo. Someone else said those words, in exactly the same tone, but Tae can't remember. He frowns, finally lifting his head, and sits back on his heels. “Us,” he says. “She knew _both_ of us.”

Echo’s indrawn breath is almost angry. “What did she want with you?” he demands. “ _Why_ would she want anything with Fives? He’s just a clone.”

“I'm an _amazing_ clone,” Fives protests, scowling at him.

“You can't even grow a goatee,” Echo retorts, and Fives makes a sound of complete and utter betrayal.

“I _could_!” he says, voice cracking. “I just haven’t wanted to.”

Tae laughs, combing his fingers through his hair to get it out of his face. “I'm sure you’ll be able to eventually,” he says, and when Fives gives him an indignant look, he raises his hands. “ _Soon_ , I mean. Very, very soon.”

Fives huffs, pointing at Tae. “See, Echo? The _Jedi_ believes me.”

Echo rolls his eyes so hard it looks like it hurts. “Facial hair is against the regs for trainees, anyway—”

“Yeah, but I've got a _Jedi_ already, so who cares about the regs­—”

“The _trainers_ care about the regs, and since they're the ones who let you graduate, you should probably care about them too—”

“Shut up,” an unimpressed voice says, and Tae glances up to the sight of a clone with close-cropped black hair, a tattoo of numbers running in a vertical line down from under one eye. He has his arms folded, expression and thoughts entirely unimpressed, and Tae straightens instantly, used to that look from the Masters at the Temple. He folds his hands in his lap and ducks his head, and feels the clone’s thoughts flicker with sharp surprise for half an instant.

“Sir!” Echo says, leaping to his feet and coming to attention. “You're CC—”

“Commander Neyo,” the clone corrects, finally pulling his gaze away from Tae. Tae sneaks another look at him, and finds him staring at Fives, considering. “Want to tell me why you two were out of your bunks, cadets?”

Fives grimaces, even as Echo’s spine pulls straight. “I—” Echo starts.

“I called them to come meet me,” Tae says, before they can get themselves in trouble. “Instinctively. I think.”

There's a long, disbelieving moment of silence. “You _think_ ,” Neyo repeats.

Tae gives Neyo his best diplomat’s smile. It’s not that good. Then again, given the amount of time Nico spends freeing slaves in Hutt space compared to the amount of time he spends being diplomatic, it’s probably decent, for all of that. “It happens with Jedi sometimes.”

Neyo stares at him, eyes narrowed. “It just _happens_ ,” he echoes. “How did you call them?”

Tae doesn’t allow himself to falter. “Mentally,” he says. “I'm a telepath. It’s…stronger with me than with most.”

One brow arches up, and Neyo doesn’t _quite_ scoff, but Tae can feel the urge. “And you picked _these_ two?”

“Of course,” Tae says firmly, and catches Fives's hand. “The Force willed it. They were the ones meant for me.”

Neyo's gaze slides from Tae to Echo, and then to Fives. His long moment of silence says _volumes_ , and when he finally asks, “What exactly were you picking them for again?” his voice is very, very bland.

Tae wants to wince, but doesn’t. “I—for…helping me as a Jedi? Because—I'm a telepath and I need an anchor, and my Master is in another system, so I needed. Help.”

Fives is trying not to laugh. Tae can feel the urge vibrating through him, only barely contained through fear of Neyo's wrath, and he’s practically shaking with it, head ducked a little to hide his expression. Tae sends him a quick jab of indignant annoyance, the way he would to Xule or anyone else he grew up with in the crèche, and feels Fives choke down a wild laugh with sheer force of will.

“Right,” Neyo says after another long, judgmental moment. “Of course.” His gaze flicker from Echo, sitting stone-faced, to Fives, to Tae, then slides down to Tae and Fives's linked hands. He sighs through his nose—

Blue light flickers, _burns_.

It feels a little like getting hit in the brain with a hammer, like a body-blow that knocks Tae right off his feet. He cries out, recoiling, and feels more than hears Fives's shout. Hands grab him, hauling him back, and Fives puts himself in front of him without hesitation, crowding him back against the headboard of the bed as azure fire flickers and forms.

In a wash of heat and light and brilliance, Aayla takes form, one glowing line at a time. She’s indistinct, more so than before, but when her eyes lock on Tae, they still hold exactly as much unnerving weight as last time. Tae clenches his teeth to keep in a groan, digging his fingers into Fives's shoulders, and Fives pushes him back a little more. There's only so much he can do, though, and even though his mind is like a pane of glass between Tae and Aayla, it’s a little like trying to use glass to keep out a hurricane.

“Fives!” Echo cries, and Aayla turns her head, but makes no move to stop Echo as he flings himself forward, right past her and onto the bed. Behind him, Neyo makes a sound of alarm, taking a step forward and then stopping short as Aayla turns to look at him. Her head tilts, lekku curling, and Tae can feel…grief, maybe. Something old and low and piercing, a single note that makes his head ring. Tae grits his teeth against it, tries not to clutch too hard at Fives, but—

It _hurts_. Aayla is bleeding grief like an arterial wound, and Tae can feel all of it, blaster-fire in his back and twin holes burned in his chest. He groans in pain, pressing a hand against his breastbone, and tries to breathe through the searing grief, the ache of life leaving a body. Not his body, but—it might as well be.

“Tae,” Fives says, and there's alarm bright in his voice. “Tae!”

“ ** _There you are_** ,” Aayla says, and like before, it echoes in Tae's head, something he heard from someone else but can't quite place. There's no space in him to consider it, though; Aayla reaches out, one glowing blue hand that sparks a billow of fire in the air around it, and just her getting that much closer makes Tae cry out. His chest is _agony_ , and he can almost feel the blaster bolts impacting his skin, trying to knock him back. Feels something else, too, a pair of sharp, burning points that hit his back, push out his chest, and Tae can't even breathe. His vision greys out, and he slumps forward over Fives's back, fighting to stay conscious. Reaches desperately for Fay—

And gets Aayla, overwhelming, all-encompassing. Her mind is all he can feel, that deep well of sorrow and the Force itself singing with grief.

“Stop it!” Fives says loudly, though there's an edge of fear in his voice. “Don’t—”

An image, or maybe a thought, or maybe a memory. Fives, older, his head shaved, in heavy white armor, his expression twisted and manic and _terrified_. Troops in red and white armor around him, blasters raised, and a Jedi, another clone in blue behind a barrier, a shout—

A blaster fires in memory, and in Tae's hold Fives jerks like the shot hit him. The sound he makes is pure pain, and he almost collapses back into Tae, shuddering, gasping. Tae catches him, feels Echo’s cry more than he hears it as Echo grabs Fives's arm.

Tae can feel it, the wound. Remembered, not real, but—the line between them is so thin that it’s almost invisible, right now.

“Aayla, _stop it_ ,” Tae says loudly, clutching Fives to him. “Don’t hurt him!”

Aayla doesn’t move, just watches him, her head tipped just slightly. “ ** _You. I remember you_** ,” she says to Fives, and it’s like a loop, like what happened last time is replaying itself in her even as everything else changes. Tae's skin prickles with a sense of something eerie, too vast to see more than the edges of, and he swallows hard, raises a hand.

“Stop this,” he says, as firmly as he can, and control is hard when everything hurts, concentration is nearly impossible with the burn of Fives's mind replaying that moment, the blasters rising, the faceless red helmet staring at him, but—

Tae reaches for Aayla's mind, grasps the threads of consciousness, and says, “ _Stop_.”

Blue fire billows, and Aayla smiles. She takes a step, then another. “ ** _I'm so glad I found you_** ,” she says. “ ** _You gave up too early last time, in your grief. You could have been the key_**.”

“What,” Tae whispers, and feels it. A rocky world, covered in rain, droid soldiers like he’s never seen before raising their weapons, and—

Tae wrenches his mind away before he can see the outcome, and Aayla reaches out, half a second before a hand shoves right through burning blue and grabs her wrist.

“No,” Neyo says, a sharp bark of command. “Leave them alone.”

Aayla looks at him, then back at Echo and Tae and Fives. Her eyes close for just a moment, and Tae can sense the ripple of something rising, a wash of something bright and beautiful and terrible.

“ ** _You’ll do_** ,” she says, and the world dissolves in a wash of blue light, sending them falling.

There's half a second to react, assess, twist, and Tae locks his arms around Fives, rolls them as the ground approaches, and lands on his feet. The weight is too much, and as Echo and Neyo hit the floor around him hard, with twin groans, he staggers back a step, falls, lands on his ass with Fives still clutched to his chest.

They're somewhere dark, somewhere empty and echoing, and Tae can't quite catch his breath.

In his arms, Fives opens dazed brown eyes, looks up at him. The press of his mind is fractured, caught between two moments, but he reaches up, touches Tae's face.

“The nightmares,” he whispers, and closes his eyes, relief and something like hope vibrating in his voice. “The mission—it’s not over yet.”

Tae's breath shudders out of him, and he leans down, resting his forehead on Fives's dark hair as he tightens his arms. “Not yet,” he agrees, and Fives smiles just a little, gripping Tae's hand.

In the darkness, the blue of the marks twists and twists and curls, an endless loop of movement caught between their skin.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm starting rotating updates on Tuesdays for four of my WIPs including this one. As it stands, the current schedule is:
> 
> 27 October - made of hurricanes and ether  
> 3 November - trade your heart for bones to know  
> 10 November - efface the footprints in the sand  
> 17 November - Spring in Hell (and everything's blooming)  
> 24 November - like a dark horse made of air  
> 1 December - made of hurricanes and ether

“We’re going out _th_ _ere_?” Rex asks, mildly alarmed.

“That would be why we’re here,” Jon says, bemused, with his head buried in a crate from the ship’s cargo hold. A moment later, a heavy winter coat almost hits Rex in the face, and he only just catches it in time. When he gives Jon a dirty look, though, Jon ignores him, emerging with one for himself. He pulls it on without pause, and Rex grimaces and looks at the heavy fabric. This isn't making him very optimistic about the planet below, honestly.

“People _live_ down there?” he asks. “It’s an ice planet, isn't it?”

“There's a Temple,” Jon corrects, and ties his hair up into a bun with a few quick motions. Rex tries very hard not to get distracted by the planes of his face, the way it brings his cheekbones and eyes into focus, but—it’s difficult.

“An abandoned Temple?” Rex asks skeptically, dragging his thoughts back under control with a will. “Are we here looking for something? Something to help defeat the Sith?”

Jon's mouth curls, visible for half a second before he pulls the hood of the coat up. “In a way,” he says, and Rex absolutely does not abuse his newfound power to pull the drawstrings on Jon's hood tight with a single jerk.

Frustratingly, Jon just loosens them again, pulling his hood open, and says, “The Order maintains the Temple on Ilum, but no one has ever lived here. It’s a planet sacred to the Jedi.”

“Oh,” Rex says, frowning, and reassesses his next words. “You said it’s for training. _Survival_ training? Going to toss me out in the snow and make me find my way back?”

It could be his imagination, but he thinks he sees Jon flinch. “No,” Jon says after a long moment. “If we were going to do that, I would have taken you to a different world. This is…something good. Difficult. But worthwhile.”

There's a thread of that same fervency Rex has heard from him before in the words, that deep-seated faith that’s always been a little unnerving but also something Rex desperately wants to feel. Swallowing, Rex looks from Jon to the viewscreen, where a dark planet is only barely illuminated by the landing lights. There's a touch of sun on the horizon, a thin band of brighter sky, but little else besides snow and wind, and Rex sighs. He pulls on the coat and does it up, then asks, “Do I need a blaster?”

“No weapons,” Jon says, and heads for the controls, leaning over to check them just as the ship settles with a light thump. Slowly, with a creak of gears, the ramp descends, and Rex hisses at the sudden wash of absolutely frigid air. He sinks deeper into his coat, trying to draw it up around his ears a little more, but there's no escaping the wind or the snow that’s already pilling up on the ramp.

“ _Jon_ ,” he says, aggrieved. “It’s _dark_ out there. Can this wait until morning?”

The look Jon slants him is definitely amused, even if Rex can't see the details of it. “The sun only rises over the Temple every nineteen standard days,” he says, and straightens. He passes Rex, and the flare of the hip-length coat he’s wearing has no right to be as dramatic and fetching as it is, but Jedi are ridiculous and Rex has long since come to terms with this. He sighs through his nose, following closely, and _his_ coat doesn’t flare dramatically, but it probably keeps him warmer in the long run.

“So we’re just going in the dark?” he asks, resigned to it, and his first step out onto Ilum’s surface is even _colder_ , if that’s possible. He sucks in a breath that feels like knives in his lungs, curses loudly, and hurries to catch up with Jon, who at the very least seems to know where he’s going.

“Sunrise is soon,” Jon says over his shoulder. “The Force brought us here at precisely the right time.”

Rex snorts, amused more than skeptical. He wants to doubt, but—honestly, with a rotation of nineteen days, the odds that after he landed on Jon on Dagobah, they would leave the swamp planet, make it to the correct hyperlanes unimpeded, and get here at precisely the right moment to land defies reason. But…maybe it really was the Force. Rex has seen weirder things. Hell, he’s _done_ weirder things, and that’s not even counting the time travel.

“So what, we wander around until we find the Temple?” he asks. “Or is there a whole building hiding somewhere around here that I'm just missing?” He squints through the gloom, at shadows just starting to take form in the dawn’s light, but the only large thing he can see is a cliff head of them, sheer and jagged where it rises from the plain they're on. It runs for what looks like forever in both directions, a vast stretch of stone in the gloom.

A few hundred meters from the base of the cliff, Jon comes to a stop, raising his face towards the sky. “The Temple here protects the Order’s history,” he says quietly, and glances over as Rex comes to a stop beside him. The slant of his smile is just another shadow in the darkness, but Rex can feel the brush of fingers over the back of his hand, and he turns his hand, catches Jon's fingers. Jon squeezes gently, then disentangles them, and says, “Look.”

Rex wants to say something biting, but—that particular tone means this is important, that it’s something Jon is sharing, and that makes Rex close his mouth on the words. He looks, following the line of Jon's gaze to where the sun is just breaking over the top of the cliff, sending light sheeting over glittering ice and dark stone, and—

It’s beautiful. Rex takes a breath, just watching it, and he can't remember the last time he just stood and watched a sunrise. Can't remember the last time he took a moment without needing to be somewhere else. On Kamino, watching the storms, and once or twice on campaigns, but—not like this. Not standing shoulder to shoulder with someone and just taking it in. The bite of the cold feels less pressing in the face of the diamond glow of the rock face, ice crystals caught in the wind shining in the sun as the wind sweeps them past. The whole expanse of stone shines, and Rex exhales long and slow.

“Rocks,” he says, though he doesn’t really mean it. “You want me to look at rocks?”

Jon snorts softly, thankfully not offended, and raises a hand. “Focus on the cliff face,” he says. “Help me open the way.”

Rex blinks, startled, and raises his hand as well, mimicking Jon. “Open?” he echoes, confused as to what they're trying to move here. “The _cliff_? In case you’ve forgotten, I almost passed out after tossing a ball back and forth across the ship a few times.”

“That’s why I'm helping,” Jon says patiently. “Focus.”

Rex makes a skeptical sound, but closes his eyes, and—the cliff is further away than anything he’s tried to touch with the Force so far. He can feel it, though, like it’s right in front of him rather than meters away. Can feel the rugged surface, smooth ice, rough stone, and the marks of sentient hands on it. Concentrates, not sure what else to do, and presses, thinks _open_ —

With a rumble, the jagged spikes of ice drop. They fall like spears, thunderous as they strike and shatter, and Rex jerks back automatically, alarmed. In the space where they were, though, there are doors, an entrance that’s tall and wide and just groaning open, and Rex's breath catches in his throat.

Jon lowers his hand, then inclines his head. “Let’s go,” he says quietly, “before the daylight fades any more.”

“You said a rotation is nineteen days?” Rex asks warily, falling into step with him as he picks his way around chunks of ice.

Jon shakes his head. “A rotation is sixty-six hours,” he says. “But given Ilum’s axis, the sun only hits the Temple every nineteen days. Once the sun sets today, the Temple will be dark until it rises again.”

And on a world like Ilum, dark means cold, Rex thinks grimly. He skirts a particularly sharp spear of ice, then heads up the set of steps. Jon is already inside, apparently at ease in the cavernous space, like he’s been here countless times. Rex watches him for a moment, then glances around, taking in the wide room, the hallways that stretch away into the distance. Something itches at him, and he pauses, looking one way and then the other, trying to find the wall. But there isn't one. Just echoing space, lit by multicolored windows for as far as even Rex's eyes can see.

Rex has a decent head for spatial understanding, for logic. He thinks of the cliff face outside, covered in ice, vast, and then the area they're standing in, and stops dead.

“It’s not a cliff,” he says, incredulous. “That whole thing is the _Temple_?”

“It freezes over,” Jon says, like that’s any sort of explanation at all. “Eventually we just stopped trying to keep the whole thing clear. Getting through the ice and debris is just another trial to enter the Temple now.” He pushes his hood back, breath clouding white in the still air, and says, “This way.”

Still reeling slightly, Rex follows him up another set of wide stone stairs, past two towering statues of robed Jedi with lightsabers. “But—it’s _huge_ ,” he says, bewildered. “Why does it need to be so big? It has to be almost as large as the Temple on Coruscant.”

“I told you. It holds the Order’s history.” Jon smiles, just faintly, and scarred fingertips brush one of the carvings in a pillar as he passes. “If anything ever happened to the Coruscant Temple, the Order could rebuild here. Not comfortably, not forever, but—” He breaks off, likely at the look on Rex's face, because Rex can't help the sick, twisting lurch in his stomach at those words.

“They could have, probably,” he says, and it’s hard to get the words out. Hard to remember, because—he saw the Temple on Coruscant. He saw the bodies. He saw what happened to karking _Jesse_ , brave, loyal, desperately steadfast Jesse, under the weight of Order 66. The Jedi never stood a chance. And—there were so many children in the Temple. _That_ was the future of the Order, the hope for the future, and Anakin made absolutely sure none of them survived. “But there was—there was no one left to rebuild anything. And—if Anakin or Dooku knew where Ilum was, so did Palpatine, if he hadn’t already.”

Jon closes his eyes, and the grief on his face is something soul-deep and burning, so sharp that Rex can hardly even look at it. It’s too familiar, regardless. He feels the same thing when he thinks about the clones and what was done to them.

“I'm sorry,” Rex says, soft, because there's nothing else he _can_ say.

It takes a long moment, but Jon finally shakes his head. “Don’t be,” he says quietly. “That’s what we came to change.” He turns on his heel, heading up the stairs and through another doorway, and Rex takes several seconds to catch his breath from the bantha-kick of aged rage and sorrow before he can force his feet to move again.

It’s not enough to stop him. Nothing is, at this point. But it makes it hit differently, a little, to walk up the steps and find a circular chamber full of frost and frozen water, with a flat-topped stone in the middle. Everything is beautifully carved, art worked into every inch of the walls and ceiling, and Rex pauses to look around, studying the circular depressions in the stone, the huge crystal just barely shining in the darkness above. Jon is sitting on top of the flat rock, legs crossed under him, and he’s watching Rex thoughtfully. There's something about seeing him here, in the middle of this empty, frozen Temple, that makes Rex's chest feel…strange.

He’s known since he met Jon that he was a Jedi. But seeing him like this, steady and at peace under thousands of years of history, on a planet sacred to the Jedi that’s grand and stately and _feels_ like something mystical—well. It’s more obvious like this. More blatant. Jon seems different, and it’s hard to remember that just last night Rex had his hands, his mouth on Jon’s skin.

But Jon gives him a small smile as he comes to the stop, tilting his face up towards the ceiling. “The Jedi are the physical manifestation of the Force,” he says softly. “We are the Force given form.”

Rex's skin prickles, and it’s hard to catch his breath. The handprint Aayla pressed into his skin is hot, and he wonders what that means for him. If the Jedi are born as the Force made physical, what does that make him, when Aayla's the only reason he’s anything even vaguely resembling a Jedi?

“You are,” he says, but Jon shakes his head.

“I feel it,” he says. “Any Jedi who’s looking will feel it. You have just as much connection to the Force as any other Jedi, Rex.”

It’s so easy for him to call Rex a Jedi. Like it’s _simple_. Like it makes _sense_. Rex's throat is tight, and he has to swallow before he can say, “It feels like it should be different. Because of Aayla. Because I'm a clone.”

Jon shakes his head. “That’s not how the Force works. You exist. That’s all that matters.”

Rex's breath shudders, and he won't say it, but—hearing that is everything. He nods, quick, and Jon gives him a crooked smile, then reaches under his coat. “This would be the first step of your training before you gained a Master, if you had started as an initiate,” he says, and pulls out his lightsaber, though he rests the hilt flat in his palm rather than igniting it. “Ilum is sacred because it contains the Crystal Caves, with more naturally-occurring kyber crystals than anywhere else we’ve found in the galaxy.”

Rex freezes, breath knotting in his throat. “ _Kyber_ crystals,” he manages after a long moment, and the emotion in his chest is equal parts terror and elation. “This is where Jedi get their kyber crystals?”

Jon nods, sliding down from the top of the stone to stand in front of Rex. “Have you ever used a lightsaber?” he asks.

Quickly, Rex shakes his head, raising his hands. “Cody was always grabbing General Kenobi's when he dropped it, but—”

“ _Dropped_ it?” Jon says, mildly horrified, and Rex takes one look at his face, thinks of Kenobi practically chucking his lightsaber across battlefields, all of Kenobi's lectures to Anakin about his lightsaber being his life, and can't stop the laughter that bubbles up.

“You look just like General Windu when he heard,” he says, a little gleeful, but _he_ had to listen to all of those lectures, too, just by virtue of being around Anakin so much.

“Why would he _drop_ his _lightsaber_?” Jon asks, bewildered and clearly disturbed, and Rex chokes on his laughter, trying his best not to show it. From the look Jon gives him, he’s not anywhere close to actually hiding it, though, and he struggles to get himself under control.

“No, I've held one before but haven’t used it,” he finally manages, and there's a thread of something light in his chest that’s a relief to feel. “Never activated.”

Quick, deft, Jon flips his lightsaber through the gloom, right into Rex's space, and Rex grabs it out of the air, then pauses. It’s always startling how _light_ a Jedi's weapon is; Each of Rex's blaster pistols weigh three or four times as much as a ‘saber, and it’s almost bewildering how much more damage a lightsaber can do.

“The weight is hard to adjust for,” Jon says, watching him. “Especially if you're expecting it to feel like a vibrosword, or even a vibroblade. But technically, anyone in the galaxy could pick up a lightsaber and use it.”

“I feel like there’s another _but_ there,” Rex says dryly, and Jon snorts, mouth curving.

“But,” he agrees, “a lightsaber isn't a weapon. Not entirely. It’s a focus.” He passes a hand through the air, and with a hum the lightsaber ignites, green blade glowing brightly in the gloom.

“A focus,” Rex repeats, willing to go along with it, even if he’s mildly confused. “For?”

“The Force,” Jon says, amused. “The crystal is attuned to the Force, and so is the Jedi. The Jedi focuses the Force through themselves, and through the crystal.”

“I thought it was just a very fancy sword,” Rex says, a little dubious.

Thankfully, instead of getting insulted, Jon just shakes his head and flicks his fingers, letting his lightsaber deactivate. It leaps from Rex's hand to reattach itself to Jon's sash, and Jon says, “You’ll understand soon.”

That sounds mildly ominous, Rex thinks with a sigh. “Let me guess,” he says. “More meditation?”

“Not quite,” Jon says, and he’s laughing at Rex, even if he’s not showing it. Rex can tell. When he gives Jon a dark look, Jon just snorts, then turns. He raises one hand, eyes narrowing—

High above them in the wall, one of the carved depressions in the stone splits down the middle, then opens, spilling bright light into the room. Vapor rises, the light of the sun enough to start the frost melting, and Rex's breath catches as everything comes alive, glittering like sun-struck glass.

Jon doesn’t stop, though. He steps forward, both hands coming up, and the way his feet move makes it seem like a fighting form, but slow, directed towards something besides violence. He moves, one step, another, and the drag of effort is almost a tangible thing, slides over Rex's skin and makes him take a step back. Jon _pulls_ , and high above them, the suspended crystal moves with a mechanical creak, the metal arms around it spinning. It catches the light, sends a wash of brilliance across the room, flickering darts as the crystals on the arms catch, and Rex steps back, not sure if Jon is going to pull it all the way down to them but not wanting to get in the way if he is.

Before he can even open his mouth to ask, though, the arms go still, and the crystal on the arm closest to them burns. It refracts the light in a sharp beam, and Rex spins, following the line of it right to a tumble of frozen water sheeting down the wall. The light strikes something at the very top of the archway, and with a hiss of movement over stone, the ice melts. Water pours down the steps, washing out through the room and draining away, and Rex stares at the small doorway that’s revealed, just barely taller than a Human.

With a breath, Jon straightens, then tips his head at the space above the door. “This is what the Ilum Temple is meant to protect,” he says quietly. “The entrance to the Crystal Caves and the heart of Ilum.” Smiling a little, he steps back, and says, “If you're going to build yourself a lightsaber, you need to find your crystal first.”

That sounds…too easy to be a Jedi thing. Rex eyes the entrance, then Jon, and asks, “So I just…grab the first one I see? Do I need mining equipment?”

As expected, Jon shakes his head. “Only one crystal in the caves is yours,” he says. “It will call to you, and you’ll recognize it when you see it. Retrieve it and return here before the day is over, or the doorway will refreeze and there will be no exit.”

Rex gives him an incredulous look, then casts a glance at the top of the archway. The light has already shifted, and in its wake the slow trickle of water emerging from the stone is already refreezing. He probably has a few hours, but—that’s a few hours to find a karking rock somewhere deep underground on a frozen iceball of a planet, without actually knowing what he’s looking for.

“ _Jetii_ ,” he mutters, and pretends not to see the way Jon ducks his head to hide a smile.

“Trust yourself,” Jon says, and his fingers brush the back of Rex's hand for half an instant before he pulls away. “Trust the Force. It will be difficult, but—I have faith in you.”

That makes one of them, Rex thinks with a sigh, but he nods. “Kiss for luck?” he asks, half-joking, but it’s still a surprise when Jon leans down. The kiss he presses to Rex's lips is feather-light, more an impression of heat in the cold air than anything, but when he pulls back, he’s smiling a little.

“Good luck,” he says. “The Force will be with you.”

Just that little gesture settles something in Rex's chest, like it’s another reminder that he isn't in this alone. He swallows, manages a nod, and asks, “Where will you be?”

It might just be his imagination, but Rex thinks he sees Jon's smile go crooked for an instant before Jon turns away, pulling his hood up. “I have my own task in the Caves,” he says. “And then I’ll wait for you here.”

“All right,” Rex says, and takes a breath, grimacing a little. “I—is there a light?”

“You won't need one,” Jon says, and glances back. His face is shadows and scars, but he tips his head and says, “Rex. Have faith. In yourself, if you can't have it in the Force.”

Rex wants to protest that he does have faith in the Force. That he does believe, and he can hang onto that, but—

It’s hard. The whole world collapsed before, and Rex's Jedi general betrayed them all. The Force didn’t save anyone. Not the Jedi who served it, not the clones who followed. When the ashes cleared, there was just…nothing left.

“If it helps,” Jon says, a touch of warm amusement in his voice, “it’s usually Jedi younglings who do this.”

Annoyance flickers, and Rex rolls his eyes. “Jedi younglings have _plasma swords_ ,” he says pointedly.

“Not until after doing this,” Jon says peaceably, and Rex pauses, caught.

“The lifting things,” he says, suspicious. “So that I’d _survive_.”

Jon just hums, like he’s not a crafty bastard. “I’m sure it will help to have all the skills of a Jedi youngling,” he says. “Even if you haven’t learned about the Code or all of the philosophy yet.”

That’s going to be a fun set of lessons, Rex thinks, resigned, and casts another look at the entrance to the Caves.

This is to find a kyber crystal. This is so Rex can find a kyber crystal and _build a karking lightsaber_. He’s going to have a lightsaber of his own if he can manage this.

Excitement curls alongside nerves, and Rex breathes in, breathes out, squares his shoulders.

“This is a Jedi thing,” he says, “so I assume it’s going to be needlessly complicated.”

“It will be precisely as complicated as it needs to be,” Jon says calmly, which isn't reassuring in the least. When Rex shoots him a look, though, he just inclines his head, clearly waiting.

Waiting for Rex to go find his lightsaber crystal. Because Rex is going to be a Jedi.

This morning, he moved things without touching them. A handful of days ago, Aayla found him on Felucia and dragged him back in time. She was part of the Force, and she picked him, and now—

Now he’s becoming a Jedi. A clone, Force-sensitive, about to build himself a lightsaber. About to do everything he can to save his brothers and the rest of the galaxy, because Aayla and the Force _picked him_.

Maybe the Force will manage to save someone after all.

Rex stares into the darkness of the Caves for a long, long moment, then takes another breath, steels himself, and heads up the steps and into the darkness.

But he isn’t stepping into darkness at all. Instead, it’s like walking into a field of stars.


End file.
